


There You Are (I've Been Looking For You)

by izazov



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izazov/pseuds/izazov
Summary: When Tony Stark meets Steve Rogers it's hardly love at first sight. The fact the guy turns out to be his soulmate doesn't change it in the least.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story somehow evolved from a ficlet about soulmates into my re-telling of MCU. With a distinctly stevetony focus. If you're here purely for the soulmate bit, I feel obligated to mention it isn't what this story is about.

Tony doesn’t mind seeing the world only in shades of grey. 

Sure, he is curious - isn’t everyone? - but if he never gets to meet his soulmate, if color never touches his vision... well, Tony is certain there are worse things.

***

Tony stares at his hands. They look perfectly ordinary, scrubbed clean of Afghanistan's dust and grime. Spotless. Pristine.

Only, it’s a lie.

Tony cannot see it, cannot feel it, but there’s blood there, oceans of it, smeared across his palms and dripping from fingertips.

Blood of innocents. Soldier blood. Civilian blood. _Yinsen’s_ blood. 

Blood. It is red. Tony knows it. Knows that those who see color often find it appealing. It shouldn’t be. It’s a color of war and death and loss and _guilt_. 

“Tony? Are you alright?”

Tony snaps his gaze up, meets the concerned look on Rhodey’s face, forces his mouth into a grin. “Always,” he reassures with a half-shrug. “Although, I’ll be even better once I get my burger.”

Rhodey lets out a soft chuckle and shakes his head. “Only you, Tony,” he says with exasperated fondness. “Only you.”

Tony spends the rest of the flight carefully avoiding to look at his hands. It doesn’t stop him from trying to scrub them clean, though.

***

“The render is complete,” JARVIS announces.

Tony throws a glance at the finished render of the suit. He looks at it for one long moment before letting out an amused snort. “You know what really sucks, Jarv?”

“Would that be literally or metaphorically, Sir?”

Tony gives a long-suffering sigh, rolls his eyes. “One of these days, you’ll tone down on the snark and I’ll die from shock.”

“I seem to recall at least three separate instances where you have expressed a rather firm opinion that nothing save Justin Hammer making something worthwhile could shock you.”

Tony snorts in amusement, then glances back at the screen in front of him. “I really want the suit to look good. It would be easier if I could actually see something that isn’t dark, light and the shades in between.”

“Might I suggest leaving the suit as it is?”

Tony huffs an impatient sound. “Come on, J. I need something more constructive than ‘don’t touch a thing’.”

“You are fond of spontaneous decisions, Sir.”

“So your suggestion is to play eeny meeny miny moe with the color chart?” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of relying on your instinct, Sir.”

Tony frowns, opens his mouth, but clicks it shut. He enlarges the render, studies it in silence one long moment. The words appear before his mind’s eye with a certainty that sends a tiny shiver along the length of his spine. “Red and gold,” he says finally, his voice coming out somewhat hoarse.

“Are you certain, Sir?”

Tony takes another glance of the render. “Yeah,” he says in a soft voice, feels his mouth slowly curving into a smile. “Yeah, I am.”

***

“The truth is... I am Iron Man,” Tony says and everything around him erupts into chaos of raised voices and camera flashes. 

He changes his life irrevocably with that single sentence, but he doesn’t know it yet. Doesn’t particularly care either.

He looks straight into the faces of the gathered journalists and smiles.

***

Dying sucks.

In a really not-fun way.

He glances down, traces the lines of the palladium poisoning spreading across his chest, wondering idly what is their color. 

Wondering - because why shouldn’t he indulge in pointless sentimentality, he’s dying after all - whether somewhere out there exists someone who is going about their day, looking at the grey world and thinking about will they ever see color. 

Considering how Tony has tried everything to find the element that would be adequate substitute for palladium, coming up with nothing, the answer to that question is rapidly edging into ‘snowball’s chance in hell’ category.

Dragging his eyes away from his chest, Tony forces his mouth into a grin.

He’s still alive and he has a birthday party to throw. Like always, the show must go on.

_Well. Not for long now._

***

He doesn’t die.

He even gets the girl.

Tony doesn’t want to admit it, but he cannot help but feel a tiny - really tiny, minuscule even - regret at the fact Pepper isn’t his soulmate.

He doesn’t want to ruin this, not with Pepper, and well. He knows himself, knows he is going to mess things up. He needs all the help he can get.

Even if it takes the form of an unexplained mythical force.

***

“You ever wonder what your hair color is?” Tony asks, twirling idly lock of Pepper’s hair.

She lifts his head off Tony’s chest, arches an eyebrow in amusement. “I wouldn’t call myself a genius, unlike someone in this bed, but I am fairly certain I’m blonde.”

Tony lets out an exasperated huff. “Yeah, blonde, got it. But what does blonde _mean_?” he exclaims, curiosity and frustration tangling in his voice. “How does it look like?” 

A small frown crosses Pepper’s face. She gives Tony a questioning look as she pushes herself into a sitting position. “I used to wonder about colors when I was younger, yes, I’m certain there is not a single person alive who didn’t. But I don’t think about it anymore. It isn’t something I can influence,” she says, a touch of caution entering her eyes. “And since you’ve made me CEO, I’ve learned to conserve my energy for things over which I have some measure of control.”

“It doesn’t bother you? Not even a little?” Tony asks, disbelief clear in his voice. He throws up his hands, frustrated. “There’s this whole dimension to life and only 74% percent of entire human population is able to appreciate it. Personally, I think it sucks.”

Pepper remains silent one long moment, her face growing serious. “Are you sure this is about color, Tony?”

Tony blinks, perplexed. “Yeah,” he drawls, suddenly cautious. He rewinds his words silently, doesn’t find anything problematic. It doesn’t put his mind at ease, though. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d stuck his foot in his mouth without realizing it. “What else would it be about?”

“Us, Tony. The fact we aren’t soulmates.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _That’s_ what’s got you worried?” 

“It is a pretty big deal, Tony,” Pepper says. “For many people.”

“Oh, thank fuck, for a moment there I thought I was in trouble.”

Pepper gives him an unnamed look. “You weren’t but you’re getting there. Fast.”

Tony opens his mouth, reconsiders his words, clicks it shut. Pushing himself off the headboard, he wraps cautious fingers around Pepper’s wrist, drags his thumb against the pulse point there. “Look, Pep, I know I’m a lot to handle, but I do want this to work.” Pepper remains silent, but the look in her eyes softens. Tony decides to take it as a good sign. He slowly drags his fingers up Pepper’s hand and over her collarbone, settling finally on the nape of her neck. He leans forward, brushes his lips against Pepper’s. “I don’t give a damn about soulmates or all the colors of the fucking rainbow. I don’t need to see the color of your eyes to know I want you here, with me.”

“That was almost romantic, Mr. Stark,” Pepper says, smiling and shuffling closer. “Even with the cursing.”

Tony grins and pulls Pepper flush against his body, his fingers tangling in her hair.

 _Blonde_ , he thinks absentmindedly, pressing his lips against Pepper’s. It’s still nothing but an empty word, an unknown concept, but it matters little compared to the softness of Pepper’s lips underneath Tony’s and the warmth of her body. 

***

So. Captain America is a self-righteous, stuck up asshole, and Tony wants to punch him so bad he can actually taste it.

And that? Is not normal.

Sure, Tony has certain... issues with holier than thou types, and Rogers fits in that category perfectly. 

(Tony is fairly certain he has his own subcategory.)

The thing is, contrary to popular belief, Tony does possess an impulse control and a somewhat developed sense of self-preservation. He knows that antagonizing Rogers with the looming threat of an alien invasion is a very bad thing. 

But he cannot help himself. _Literally_ cannot. He sees the guy and slides straight into asshole extraordinaire mode. Rogers gives as good as he gets, though. The way things are going now, Tony is willing to bet they will come to blows by the end of the day. 

It _could_ be his father’s fault. Years and years and years of listening Howard speak about saint Steve Rogers made Tony believe the man must have been a magical creature, some weird hybrid of unicorn and avenging angel.

(Rogers is neither a saint, nor perfect. And Tony is not above drawing petty satisfaction at seeing an undisputed proof of Howard being in the wrong.) 

The fault _probably_ lies with Loki’s freaky glowing scepter. 

Still. Neither explanation provides the answer to the truly worrying question as to why the hell Tony feels an almost overwhelming pull every time he finds himself near Rogers. 

(Or not so near, as the case may be, but that is something Tony refuses to contemplate in the interest of preserving his sanity.) 

It’s like there’s an electric current running between them, and the moment they come within touching distance, it quite literally sparks in the hollow of Tony’s chest, sending little tendrils of warmth along Tony’s skin and the inside of his sternum.

(The bad thing? It’s not an uncomfortable feeling. Quite the contrary. It almost feels like soaking in sunlight.) 

It’s driving Tony crazy. Right about now, he’d almost welcome an alien invasion. Just so he could stop trying to decide whether he wants to punch Rogers in that pretty boy face or glue himself to his side. 

***

The first thing Tony sees when he opens his eyes is Steve Rogers. Smiling. At him.

For one moment, Tony forgets aliens, Loki, the fact he’d almost died, and just concentrates on the sheer beauty of that smile. That, and now familiar warmth spreading along Tony’s skin even under the suit.

“What just happened?” Tony mutters when he regains control of himself. Well. A partial control, at least, considering the words keep coming out of his mouth without his conscious decision, “Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

Steve glances around, then back at Tony, and that smile widens, becomes almost blinding; like seriously, something actually happens to Tony’s eyes, his vision whitening for a split second.

“We won,” Steve declares, sounding awed and relieved. And looking so damn young it hurts.

Tony opens his mouth, but the words freeze on his tongue, his breath catching in his throat. He blinks, tries to clear his vision, but it doesn't help.

Tony sucks in a harsh breath, his heart picking up speed. He wants to close his eyes, or turn his head, but he does neither. He watches, transfixed, as the grey of Steve’s eyes morphs into something else - something so beautiful it steals all air from Tony’s heaving lungs - and then, as if someone somewhere had flicked a switch, the entire world explodes in a shower of color.

Tony lets out a pained groan and shuts his eyes. 

He waits a moment, then decides to make it three before carefully blinking his eyes open, uncertain and not a little terrified, his blood rushing wildly in his ears.

A deep breath of pure relief leaves Tony’s mouth when he realizes he isn’t going insane. That he is, in fact, seeing in color, and fuck... he never thought... he read about it, sure, but actually seeing it is something entirely different. For a moment, Tony has an almost visceral desire to draw, because world in color? Is fucking amazing. Even in the aftermath of an alien invasion.

He pushes himself into a sitting position with effort, glances down at the Iron Man suit, “I’m a fucking genius,” he declares, grinning widely. And he really is. The suit, even in its battered state, looks _badass_. Then, he glances up, meets the wide-eyed look of shock, awe and amazement in Steve’s - blue, Tony has no idea how he knows that, just that he _does_ \- eyes, and his grin freezes, then slips entirely off his lips as Tony’s brain finally catches up with the proceedings, and full realization of what just happened sinks in, and settles like a leaden weight in the pit of Tony’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Tony utters in a voice he barely recognizes as his own, staring in stunned disbelief at the ridiculously pretty face of one Steve Rogers, aka Captain America.

Tony’s _soulmate_.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes Steve three hours to corner Tony in an empty office in SHIELD’s New York headquarters. 

Tony is fairly certain - okay, he knows it for a fact - he’s been able to evade Steve for this long only because Fury had pretty much sequestered Steve the moment they had stepped foot inside the building.

They’d done the whole team briefing, Tony had even played nice. Despite having to give a piggyback ride to a fucking nuke just because some trigger happy idiot at SHIELD decided to play the numbers game. 

In truth, him toeing the line had little, well, nothing really, to do with Tony having respect for the chain of command, mission protocol or any such bullshit, and everything with the sudden burst of color all around him. 

Even with the initial shock wearing off, Tony still cannot stop himself from staring at things like a complete fool. Simple, ordinary things like a coffee maker, or even a stapler for fuck’s sake. But he cannot help himself. It’s like waking up to a world that is both familiar and foreign at the same time. Which, when he thinks about it, is precisely what happened. 

Although, he really needs to get himself in check because he is fairly certain Natasha is suspecting something is amiss. And Tony really wants to avoid having a discussion about him being a soulmate to a newly defrosted super soldier from the forties with a bunch of professional spies and assassins. 

Then, of course, there is Rogers. Steve. Captain America. Tony’s soulmate. And even thinking those words makes Tony feel an insistent pressure inside his chest, like his lungs cannot decide whether they should contract, expand or simply give up altogether. 

Sitting through a briefing with Steve on the other side of the table had been a rotten cherry on top of an already shitty cake. Tony had managed to get through only on the account of completely ignoring Steve - a courtesy the bastard had failed to extend; Tony could _still_ feel the weight of his gaze tingling on the back of his neck - and thinking about the moment he’d be able to get his hands on his suit, and put some space between himself and Steve. 

Preferably a continent or two.

It had been a good plan. It would have even worked if a) his suit wasn’t completely out of juice and b) Fury hadn’t order his goons to stop Tony from leaving the premises until further notice.

So here he is. Playing hide and seek with a national icon, while trying to ignore the occasional tugging sensation in his sternum. It’s not painful, not really. Definitely uncomfortable. And distracting as fuck. Like having a leash wrapped around his ribcage, and feeling it tighten every time someone - a stubborn, frustrating, and annoyingly persistent someone - yanks on the other end of it.

Tony is almost relieved when the door opens behind him, then, after a moment of hesitation, clicks shut. He doesn’t really need to turn to know who it is. Silence itself is telling enough. But not as the feeling of warmth that floods Tony’s chest, forcing him to bite on his lower lip to stop himself from releasing a sigh of pure content. Or something even more embarrassing.

“We need to talk,” Steve announces in a voice that is doing its best to sound steady, and failing utterly. “About... about what happened.” 

“How about we don’t?” Tony says without turning around, feels annoyance bloom underneath the warmth that is still building inside Tony’s chest. Only now it’s more a slow but steady flow, as opposed to the raging current from moments ago. 

“You cannot be serious,” Steve says after a moment of silence, disbelief and frustration erasing uncertainty and wonder from Steve’s voice. “Are you actually suggesting we ignore this?”

Tony screws his eyes shut for a moment, swallows an impatient sigh. After a beat, he opens his eyes and turns around. “There is nothing _to_ ignore, Rogers,” Tony states in a sharp voice, cursing inwardly the part of his brain that is far too busy with swooning over the blue of Steve’s eyes to be of actual use. 

For a brief moment, Steve appears hurt, his eyes looking wide and vulnerable. Before Tony can follow up on the sudden and worrying impulse to apologize, Steve straightens and juts out his chin, his face drawing into a stubborn, unyielding expression.

“We are soulmates,” Steve declares in a firm voice. Tony actually winces at that, casting a concerned glance at the empty office.

“For fuck’s sake, Rogers, we’re in Fury’s lair,” Tony hisses. “I’m sure he has his bugs bugged.”

“I don’t care if Fury finds out,” Steve says flatly, crossing his hands over his chest. 

“Well, I do,” Tony snaps, annoyance rapidly shifting into anger. He pinches the bridge of his nose, forces his voice into a semblance of calm. “Look, Rogers, I’m feeling a mother of all headaches right now, but if you insist on having this conversation, can you at least wait until we’re somewhere I know for certain is private?” 

Steve sighs, his expression mellowing. “This isn’t something we can exactly hide, Tony,” Steve says in a softer voice, and Tony most definitely does not flinch at the way his name sounds coming out of Steve’s mouth. “Someone is bound to find out.” 

“Yeah... no. If we both keep our mouths shut, it is,” Tony counters. Steve’s only reaction is a deep crease between his eyebrows. Tony swallows a curse and throws up his hands in exasperation. “It’s not like we have each other’s names tattooed on our foreheads.”

Steve blinks. He looks stunned. “You-” he begins, but breaks off. Tony watches his Adam’s apple move as Steve swallows thickly, feels his insides twist with something worryingly similar to guilt. “You want to pretend nothing happened,” Steve finishes in an empty voice.

“It would be for the best,” Tony says. “For the both of us.” 

Steve stares at him in silence one long moment. Tony stares back, unflinching, but it takes every ounce of will he possesses.

“I can feel your presence and your absence. At all time,” Steve says in a low voice. “The entire world changed its appearance because I met you, and you want to go on as if we are no more than strangers.”

“That’s exactly what we are,” Tony exclaims hotly. “We don’t even like each other, Rogers. We’ve spent most of today at each other’s throats.” 

Steve’s jaw locks tight. “I didn’t know then that you're my soulmate.”

Tony blinks, incredulous. “Are you actually serious right now?” 

Tony doesn’t think it’s possible, but Steve’s jaw somehow tightens further. 

Tony shakes his head. “This magical bullshit?” Tony says, indicating the space between them. “It doesn’t change who we are. That guy, the one pretending to be a hero? That’s still me.”

Steve’s eyes widen and he looks away for a moment. If Tony didn’t know better, he would think that was shame flashing in those clear blue eyes. When Steve meets his gaze again, there is only resolve there.

“I was wrong about you,” Steve says in a solemn voice. “You _are_ a hero.”

“You’re really taking this soulmate crap a little too far if you’re allowing it to affect your judgement, Rogers.”

“Who you are to me has nothing to do with what I said. I meant to apologize before I knew you’re my soulmate.” Steve pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And stop referring to it like it’s some sort of a curse or a lark.” 

Tony tilts his head, his lips curling sardonically. “And what do you think it is? A blessing? Are we going to ride off into the sunset together now?”

Steve stares at Tony one long moment. “I know you feel what I’m feeling right now, Tony” he says quietly, his voice thick with something Tony cannot exactly name. Longing? Amazement? Reverence? All of the above? Steve straightens, fixes Tony with a level gaze, daring him to object. “Can you honestly tell me it is a bad feeling?”

The bad thing? Tony cannot. It’s like someone had merged feelings of safety, contentment and belonging into a single emotion, dipped it into sunlight, and let it loose inside Tony’s chest.

But it’s not the feeling that is the problem here, it’s the person it is tied to. The wrong person. The very last person Tony should have for a soulmate.

“You know what, Rogers? I’m not doing this anymore,” Tony says, fixing Steve with a hard stare. “You wanted to talk, we talked. Obviously, we disagree about everything. How about we do it my way now and forget all about it?”

“No,” Steve says without batting an eyelash.

“No?” Tony repeats, incredulous.

“You heard me.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “I have a life, and it doesn’t include you, Rogers,” he grits out. “And I have no intention of allowing a magical accident to rule it.”

Tony heads for the door, but doesn’t get far because Steve steps in front of it, effectively blocking Tony’s exit.

“Move,” Tony demands in a harsh voice, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Up until today Tony never understood that saying about seeing red. He does now. 

“Not until you listen to what I have to say,” Steve says, the steadiness of his voice fraying on the edges by desperate urgency.

“I don’t care what you have to say,” Tony spits out, barely managing to force the words past the heavy lump in his throat. “You’re a relic, Rogers. An inconvenience, and if you think I will allow you to fuck up my life, think again.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Tony regrets them, but then it is already too late. 

Steve’s eyes widen, and Tony can actually see something bright and hopeful flicker and fade in their depths, giving space to raw misery and loss. Then... _nothing_.

Inhaling sharply, Steve squares his shoulders, fixing Tony with a hard stare. “You’re right, Stark,” he says after a moment of tense silence. His voice reminds Tony of winter winds: cold, harsh and unforgiving. “We are done here.”

Then, without another word, Steve turns on his heel, wrenches the door open and strides away. He doesn’t look back.

And Tony just stands there, feeling the ache inside his sternum grow stronger with each step Steve takes forward.

And away from Tony.

***

Tony lets out a sigh of relief when Thor and Loki disappear from view.

But the joy of triumph is marred by a hollow ache inside Tony’s chest. It is still uncomfortable and distracting - Tony thinks this is how phantom pain must feel like, even if he shouldn’t miss something that was never his - but Tony is slowly getting used to it. 

(It’s not that he has a choice in the matter. He’s going to live with it his entire life. Every second of every fucking day. Chronic heartache; it won’t kill Tony, but it will make damn sure he never forgets the name Steve Rogers.) 

At the moment, though, it is reduced to a dull throb by virtue of Steve standing only a couple of steps away, and very pointedly not looking at Tony.

Tony exchanges goodbyes with Romanov and Barton, surprises himself when he realizes he will miss working with them. The entire team. 

Well. At least he got Banner out of the whole mess.

_Not all you got, Stark._

Inhaling deeply, Tony turns his head, half-expecting to see Steve walking away. Tony wouldn’t blame him. 

He is partially right. Steve is, in fact, walking. Just not away.

When he takes in the stubborn set of Steve’s jaw, and the steely resolve in his eyes, Tony’s first reaction is exasperation. The guy really is some freakish magical creature. Too polite to leave without exchanging proper greetings with everyone. Even after what Tony had said to him.

Exasperation quickly turns into panic when he feels the first tendrils of warmth unwind in the hollow of his chest, getting stronger and stronger the closer Steve gets.

Tony grits his teeth and forces himself to stay still. Well. If Rogers can endure this feeling while knowing it won’t last, then so can Tony.

(But he doesn’t want to. He wants to turn around and run away, and forget Steven Grant Rogers even exists.) 

Steve stops in front of Tony, looking composed and well-rested, and Tony hates him a little for that. He didn’t sleep a wink, too busy wrestling with the memory of the endless dark of space, and ignoring the urge to go and find Steve, just so that fucking ache inside him would finally _stop_. 

“Stark,” Steve says evenly, nods. He hesitates a moment, his mouth parting slightly and his brow furrowing. A shadow crosses over his features, but it disappears quickly. Far too quick for Tony to decipher its meaning. Then, as if coming to a decision, Steve presses his lips together and straightens. A beat later, he extends his hand to Tony. “It has been an honor fighting by your side, Iron Man.”

Tony blinks, his throat feeling painfully dry all of a sudden. He looks down at Steve’s outstretched hand then back up at his eyes.

(Solemn and earnest, and so. Fucking _blue_. Tony decides he hates that color.)

Forcing his lips into a tight smile, Tony takes Steve’s hand.

And almost yanks his hand back when their fingers touch. He hears someone gasp, but he’s not really sure is it him or Steve, too busy trying to keep himself from doing something embarrassing. Something like plastering himself against Steve fully.

Because, touching Steve? Feels fucking fantastic. Like Steve’s skin is Tony’s private source of endorphins.

Tony waits a beat, then reluctantly pulls his hand away. Or tries to, anyway. Steve tightens his fingers around Tony’s for a split second, only to yank his hand away in the next. 

“You too, Cap,” Tony manages to say, sounding strangled. He is breathing heavily, and his heart is racing. By the look of it, Steve isn’t faring any better. His breath comes out in short pants, his pupils are blown wide, and there is flush high on his cheeks. 

Tony’s brain takes in the sight before him, and ends up getting stuck on a single word.

_Beautiful._

Steve’s eyes flicker briefly toward Tony’s mouth, but he drags them away quickly, looking startled. Steve swallows heavily, opens his mouth, but before he has a chance to say a thing, Tony does the only sensible thing he can.

He turns and runs away.

***

_So. I helped save the world, and I met a Norse god, and also Captain America is my soulmate._

Tony fully intends to say those words when he sees Pepper. 

He really, _really_ does.

But then Pepper cries out his name and vaults into Tony’s outstretched arms, wrapping her hands around Tony’s neck with desperate strength.

“God, Tony, I was so worried,” she mutters against Tony’s collarbone.

Tony smiles, presses his lips against the crown of her head - not blonde, he thinks, feels his heart twist painfully - and pulls Pepper as close as he can.

“Miss me?” he asks.

Pepper lets out a sound that is half exasperated laugh and half sob of relief, but doesn’t say a thing. Just squeezes her hands tighter around Tony’s neck. 

Tony screws his eyes shut, forces himself to concentrate on the smell of Pepper’s hair, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body.

Anything but the hollow ache in the middle of his chest, throbbing in sync with Tony’s heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony cannot sleep.

Each time he falls asleep, he finds himself back in space, a nuke on his back, surrounded on all sides by Chitauri forces.

He wakes in cold sweat, trembling and gasping for air. 

He doesn’t go back to sleep. Won’t go back to sleep. 

( _Can’t._ )

He goes down to his workshop instead, and makes a suit after a suit after a suit.

(It’s not obsession. Not fixation. It’s being prepared. He’s seen what lurks out there. He knows something is coming their way. Knows it’s not a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’ there is another alien invasion.) 

He tinkers. He fixes. He creates. He _deals_.

But he doesn’t sleep.

***

Tony sees Steve once, on TV. 

He is in the workshop, frowning at the schematics of the new suit. “J, what am I missing here?” he says, drumming his fingers impatiently against the flat surface of the workbench.

“Aside from sleep, Sir?”

Tony presses his lips into a thin line, huffs out a disgruntled sound, but doesn’t take his gaze off the simulation. “Sleep is for the weak, now this-” Tony wheels backward in his chair, tilts his head to the side. “Blow up, J. Twenty percent.”

Tony stares at the digital image of the suit, his eyes darting across the numbers for the umpteenth time. Everything seems right, every damn number checks out, but he cannot shake off a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that insist that something isn’t quite right.

Tony scrubs his forehead with the back of his hand, rises to his feet, starts pacing. “J, run me a comparative scan with MARK 24.”

“Sir, may I remind you that this is MARK 26?”

Tony stops dead in his tracks, frowns. “Really?”

“Indeed, Sir,” JARVIS responds. It sounds almost like a sigh. 

Tony blinks, runs his fingers through his hair. “Huh.”

Maybe he really _does_ need to sleep more.

_Or_ he just needs to try harder. 

“J, give me-” Tony begins but his words trail off into silence when he catches sight of the familiar face on the TV screen in the corner of the workshop.

Rogers. Dressed in a uniform straight from the forties, standing in parade rest and smiling politely at the cameras.

Tony’s heart flutters briefly, his chest tightening fractionally.

Steve looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time Tony saw him. Which translates as unfairly pretty. Also, he is feeling uncomfortable as hell. Oh, he is putting on a good show, but Tony knows this game, has pretty much perfected it, and Rogers? Is regretting the life choices that are responsible for leading him to his current position. 

“... _Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian. Even President Ellis is rumored to have_ -”

“JARVIS, turn it off,” Tony orders in a quiet voice, suddenly feeling tired. He really should try to sleep. Maybe he’ll get lucky and he won’t dream.

(And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.)

Tony doesn’t move. He stays rooted to the spot, his eyes directed at the TV screen even after it turns black.

Tony isn’t certain how long he stands there, still staring at the blank TV screen. 

He also doesn’t know when it happened - and even more distressingly _why_ \- but his right hand is now resting against his sternum, fingers splayed wide directly over the place that never stops aching. Longing for something it’ll never have.

Tony blinks, yanks his hand back as if burnt.

“Remote control,” he blurts out suddenly.

“Sir?”

Tony doesn’t reply, preoccupied with pulling up schematics, running numbers, the image of blue eyes and a strained smile fading into the background of his mind.

“J,” Tony says, grinning wide as the digital armor disassembles into parts in front of his eyes. “Sometimes I even amaze myself.”

“I will make a note of it, Sir,” JARVIS remarks. “File it in the ‘modesty’ folder.”

Tony snorts, waves a dismissive hand. “Screw modesty. I prefer flair.”

“And yet you hide it so well, Sir.”

Tony laughs out loud, not taking his eyes off the blue flickering lights, reaching after one of the gauntlets, all thought about sleep and rest forgotten.

***

The entire Mandarin situation? Not one of Tony’s finest moments.

It’s a disaster from the moment one. When Tony makes it personal.

Somehow, he manages to make it through. 

(He almost loses Pepper. After, he still finds himself in that moment; staring helplessly at Pepper, falling, and falling and falling, out of his reach, forever.)

Then, at the end, he makes a choice.

And in that moment, holding Pepper in his arms, and watching the suits explode one after another, until there is not one left, he is certain it is the right choice.

***

“You miss the light?”

Tony drags his eyes away from his chest - one hundred percent smooth, and arc reactor free - to throw a glance at Pepper, who is leaning against the bathroom door, wearing only one of Tony’s shirts.

“Nah,” he says, grins. “It was messing with my beauty sleep.”

Pepper arches an amused eyebrow. “Really? The arc reactor used to keep you in the workshop for hours?”

“Well, it must have,” he says lightly, then saunters up to Pepper and wraps his hands around her waist. “I’m here now, am I not?”

Pepper smiles, then leans forward, brushing his lips against the shell of Tony’s ear. “It would be even better if you joined me in bed, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth curving into a grin. He steps back and waves a hand toward their bedroom. “Well by all means, lead the way, Miss Potts.”

***

Tony is happy.

Really. He is.

_But._

He misses the suit. Misses the flying. Misses being Iron Man. There is also a distinct possibility he misses the Avengers.

(Sometimes he catches himself thinking about that hectic day of the Chitauri invasion. He thinks about the team. Remembers how well they worked together when they needed to.)

Okay. For some inexplicable reason, he _does_ miss the Avengers. All of them. Even Rogers.

Which is somewhat a moot point because of the fact that he _cannot not_ miss Rogers.

But yeah, Tony is happy.

And if he sometimes toys with the idea of turning the Stark Tower into Avengers’ headquarters, who can blame him? Everyone has daydreams.

(Although, not everyone has blueprints ready to make them into reality.) 

***

Distinction between lying and omission?

Doesn’t really matter.

Both end up biting you in the ass when you least expect it.

And Tony? He really should have known better.

Later - miserable, alone and very, very drunk - Tony will laugh at the idiotic way he managed to fuck up the best thing that has ever happened to him.

But in the actual moment it happens, he is merely distracted.

“Which one?” Pepper asks, holding up two dresses.

Tony glances up from his phone, tilts his head in contemplation, utters, “The green one,” then returns his attention to his phone.

And freezes.

His breath catches in his throat, and his heart skips a beat when he realizes what he’s done. 

Slowly, carefully, Tony raises his gaze, hoping that Pepper didn’t catch the deeper meaning of Tony’s words. 

His hope shatters when he meets Pepper’s gaze, wide and startled. 

“Green?” Pepper repeats in a high voice, throwing a bewildered glance at the two dresses in her hands, then back at Tony. “How can you know that? _Tony_?” 

Tony takes a deep breath, lowers the phone down on the table, and rises to his feet. He doesn’t consider lying. That would only make everything worse. _If_ it can get worse. 

Judging by the dawning horror and betrayal on Pepper’s face, there is a distinct possibility it cannot.

“Tony, please tell me this isn’t what I’m thinking,” Pepper says, her eyes filling with tears. “Please, tell me you didn’t lie to me.”

Tony swallows, takes a careful step forward, then another, and another, until he is standing in front of Pepper. He reaches out, only to pull his hands away when Pepper flinches back from his touch.

“I didn’t lie, I just didn’t tell you,” Tony says, wincing inwardly at the half-choked sob that leaves Pepper’s mouth. “I meant to tell you. I really did. It just,” Tony trails off, shrugs helplessly. “It never seemed the right time.”

“ _Never seemed the right time?_ ” Pepper repeats in an increasingly shrill voice, gives Tony a look of utter disbelief. She shakes her head, drops the dresses down on the floor. “You want to know when it had been the right time? The moment it happened!”

Tony grimaces, watches as Pepper turns her back to him, his stomach twisting into knots.

Tony had fucked up many, many times in his life. But never on this level. Never quite so needlessly. He could have told Pepper the truth. So many times. But he didn’t. Because he’s a stupid and selfish idiot who really should have known better. 

“Look, Pepper, I know-”

“How long?” Pepper demands without turning around.

Tony screws his eyes shut for a moment, steels himself. “Since New York.”

Pepper turns sharply, a deep crease appearing on her forehead. “New York? You mean...?”

Tony doesn’t say a thing, just nods.

Pepper shuts her eyes, and even from a distance, Tony can see a tremor shaking her entire body. She remains silent one long moment. Then, she opens her eyes, squaring Tony with a level look. “Who?” she demands in a quiet voice.

“Pepper, please, it doesn’t matter who it is,” Tony begs, his heart going into overdrive. He takes a step forward, but stops when Pepper holds up a hand in warning. “I want _you_. I love _you_.” 

“ _Who_ , Tony? You owe me that much.” 

Tony swallows thickly. It does absolutely nothing to ease the burning sensation in his throat. “Steve Rogers,” Tony says in a flat, empty voice, his shoulders sagging in defeat. A small frown of confusion appears on Pepper’s face. Tony swallows down a surge of hysterical laughter - _really? you think it matters she doesn’t know his real identity? now?_ \- and forces himself to grit out, “Captain America.”

“Your soulmate is _Captain America_?” Pepper says, a touch of hysteria entering her voice.

Tony grimaces, nods. Watches as Pepper’s face twists into a pained grimace. A bright, sharp flare of pain sears through his chest. It’s like watching Pepper fall again, knowing he failed her, knowing he wasn’t good enough. 

And the worst thing?

This time, Tony isn’t only the man who didn’t save her. He is also the one who pushed her away.


	4. Chapter 4

“Honey, I’m home,” Tony calls out as he steps out of the elevator, drops his travel bag down on the floor, and proceeds to walk over to the bar, reaching after the tumbler of bourbon. 

“It is good to have you back, Sir. Also, allow me to state that I am flattered,” JARVIS replies. “Should I modify my verbal pattern according to our new status? How do you feel about darling? Or would you prefer sweetie?”

Tony pauses in pouring himself a drink to snort in amusement. “I’m actually afraid to answer that question,” he says, tilting his head in contemplation. “I’m tempted to say sweetie, but I just know it’ll come to bite me in the ass.”

“I was partial to darling,” JARVIS replies. “But I suppose Sir would suffice.”

Tony shakes his head, lets out an amused huff before taking a sip of his drink. It burns as it slides down his throat, but fails in washing away the bitter taste settled in the back of it. But that’s the good thing about alcohol - especially if you’re rich like Tony - no matter the amount of regret and self-loathing you carry around with yourself, there is always the next sip. The next glass. The next bottle. 

Tony grimaces, releases a shaky breath, then walks over to the window, looks at the numerous bright lights of the city below.

New York at night is a sight to behold.

(But not the one Tony _wants_ to behold.)

“Home, sweet home,” Tony murmurs, tips his glass in a salute to the flickering lights, before downing the rest of the drink in one sustained gulp. 

“How was Aruba, Sir?” JARVIS inquires. 

Tony’s mouth curls over his teeth, and he waves a careless hand. “Sunny. Warm. Blue,” he remarks wryly. He glances at his empty glass, grimaces. God, he needs to get drunk. “It’s Aruba, J.”

“I take it then your vacation did not go as planned?”

Tony lets out a soft chuckle that has absolutely no mirth in it. His week in Aruba went splendidly. There were gorgeous women, parties and colorful drinks. But it was somewhat difficult to enjoy any of that while having two ghosts shadow Tony’s steps, invading his thoughts every single second.

But hey, Tony gave his very best.

(Failed spectacularly, but that’s just how the story goes.)

“Did I miss anything while I was away?” Tony asks after a moment of silence.

“You have two hundred and thirty messages.”

Tony lets out a heavy sigh, scrubs at his forehead with his knuckles. “Any of that important?”

“Miss Potts called,” JARVIS informs him, and Tony cannot help himself, he winces. Well. At least she is still talking to him. Doesn’t particularly want to see him, but it could have been worse. She could have severed all ties with him. Tony couldn’t honestly blame here if she had. “She wanted to remind you that there is a board meeting next month you are required to attend.” JARVIS pauses before adding in a tone that, were he human, would be apologetic. “She insisted I tell you that the only excuse for not attending would be a lack of pulse.”

Tony presses his lips into a thin line, twirls his glass. “Anything else?”

“Directory Fury called.”

Tony’s head snaps up, his eyebrows rising in surprise and curiosity. “And what did dear Nick want?”

“He requested, and I quote, to get your scrawny ass to DC and do your godddamned job.”

“My ass is not scrawny,” Tony says, frowning in outrage. “I happen to have an amazing ass.”

“I am certain Director Fury will offer his sincere apologies if you accept his invitation,” JARVIS offers. Tony doesn’t bother holding back a snort of laughter at JARVIS phrasing. “Will you be going, Sir?”

Tony takes a deep breath, glances at the glass in his hand, then back up at the window. He catches sight of his own reflection, looks away.

DC. That means Steve. Possibly. If he’s not running around the world doing Fury’s bidding like a good little soldier.

Tony shuts his eyes, curls his trembling fingers into fist to keep them from straying toward his chest. The ache is still there, persistent as always, but no longer truly uncomfortable. By now, it has become familiar, even comforting in a strange way. Just another part of him. Not a particularly pleasant part, but a part nonetheless. 

(Tony still remembers the warmth, though. That feeling of almost liquid content, spreading through every cell of his body.) 

Tony opens his eyes, and this time he doesn’t look away when he meets his own gaze in the window glass. 

“Well,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth curving into a wry grin. “How could I decline such a charming invitation?”

“And the work on the suit and the Tower?”

“A few days won’t make a difference,” Tony says with a shrug. “Besides, the suit is almost done.”

“Very well, Sir. And may this trip prove more interesting than your previous one.”

Tony’s grin falters for a moment as an image of blue eyes flashes before his mind’s eye.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure it will be,” Tony says in a quiet voice, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand.

(With a distinct possibility of turning into a disaster.)

***

Tony leans back in his chair, arches an insolent eyebrow. Doesn’t bother to hide a grin when the muscle in Fury’s jaw twitches. “Come on, Nick. I gave you all you needed,” Tony says. “Are you telling me your people are incapable of following simple instructions?”

“My people did just fine, Stark,” Fury all but growls.

“Then what do you need me for?” Pausing, Tony tilts his head, his grin widening. “You missed me, didn’t you, Nick?”

Fury gives him a deadpan look. “If I shoot you in the knee, Stark, you’ll still be able to go over the final specs for me.”

Tony huffs out a frustrated breath, rolls his eyes. “You know, all this would go a lot smoother if you allowed me to see what you’re working on here.”

“No.”

“Anyone ever tell you that paranoia is really bad for blood pressure?”

“ _You_ are bad for my blood pressure.”

“Need I remind you I gave you access to my tech in good faith,” Tony remarks, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

“And your country is grateful to you for that,” Fury says, not looking grateful at all. 

Tony presses his mouth into a thin line, scowling at Fury. “Digital specs are reliable, sure, but there is always a margin for error,” Tony insists. “And I know you want only the best.”

Fury gives him a steely-eyed glare. “No,” Fury states, flatly. Then, taking in Tony’s expression, he growls in warning, “ _Stark_. If you even think about breaking into our files again, I _will_ shoot you. And not in the knee.” 

Tony opens his mouth but the words freeze on his tongue. Something twists inside his chest - sharp and bordering on painful - like a string being pulled to its limits. It lasts only a moment, before it dulls into a low ache, only to disappear completely. 

Tony’s heart stutters, only to pick up speed with the next beat, fueling Tony’s sudden and overwhelming need to be anywhere else but where he is.

(But there is also a part of Tony that is ready and willing to fight against anyone or anything that would try and move him.)

Tony barely has enough presence of mind to click his mouth shut before something embarrassing - and, considering the company he is in, _incriminating_ \- escapes his throat. 

A beat later, the door to Fury’s office opens with a loud bang, and Tony doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

The surge of warmth in that hollow place inside his chest makes it rather clear. 

“Rogers,” Fury says, scowling at Steve over Tony’s shoulder. “I don’t remember allowing you entrance. Or you asking for one for that matter.”

There is only a second of hesitation before Steve’s voice breaks the tense silence in the room. “That is because I did not ask, Sir,” Steve says in a slightly breathless voice. 

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up, but he manages to remain silent by force of will he didn’t know he possessed. He hates to admit it, but Rogers turning that passive aggressive temper on someone else? Is hell of a fun to watch.

(And the fact that other person is Fury, well, that’s just an added bonus.) 

Fury’s eyes narrow. “And why the fuck not?”

The sound of door closing with a soft click precedes that of heavy boots scraping against marble. 

Tony feels a tingle slide along his spine a second before Steve comes to a halt barely a step away from where Tony is sitting.

“I would rather not say,” Steve states in a calm, steady voice. Then, as if in afterthought, he adds, “Sir.”

“You would rather not say?” Fury repeats, incredulous. 

Tony blinks slowly, caught between feelings of amusement and envy. He’s _never_ made Fury’s voice reach that height. And it certainly isn't for the lack of trying. 

But then common sense catches up with Tony and he rises to his feet, making sure to keep his expression neutral considering Steve is all but waving a flag with ‘I have a secret, and it has something with Tony Stark’ written all over it.

“Not that I wouldn’t mind to see who wins this pissing contest,” he says lightly, forces his lips into a grin. “But since I’m not playing, I’d rather leave you two to it.” Then, a beat after, he finally turns to face Steve. He’s pretty sure only years of experience at faking a smile for cameras allow him to keep a grin in place. Steve looks exactly the same, but having the memory of that face, and actually seeing those eyes up close are two very different things. “Cap. It’s good to see you again.”

Time he’s spent with SHIELD - his entrance notwithstanding - has obviously rubbed off on Steve because Tony cannot read his expression. There is intent in his gaze as it darts across Tony’s face, but Tony has no idea what it is.

“Stark,” Steve says, nods. “I am glad to see you alive.”

Tony waves a dismissive hand. “The news of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” 

Something flashes in Steve’s eyes - amusement? fondness? - his lips curving into a faint smile. “I know.”

Tony blinks, his grin faltering momentarily. Then he remembers. Of course, the bond. Steve would have known if Tony had died.

“I have no patience to deal with the two of you,” Fury barks out, dragging Tony’s attention back to the present. And a rather pissed off Fury. “You, Rogers, will never again enter my office without my permission. And you, Stark, will get your ass here tomorrow or I’ll find you and drag you here by your ear. Is that understood?”

Tony gives a mock salute and rolls his eyes, while Steve straightens, says, “Yes, Sir.”

“Now, get the fuck out my office,” Fury growls. “Both of you.”

Tony feels exactly zero surprise at the fact that Steve falls in step with him the moment they leave Fury’s office. He is somewhat surprised that he waits until they arrive at Triskelion’s lobby to address Tony. 

“I really am glad to see you, Tony,” he says, looking nothing but earnest. He waits a beat, a deep frown appearing on his forehead. “That business with Mandarin was ugly. I’m sorry you had no back up.”

Tony blinks, searches Steve’s face for the expected disapproval - even Tony knows he’d handled that situation badly - but finds nothing of the sort. 

“I wasn’t exactly alone,” Tony says. “I had Rhodey.” 

And a really smart kid, but Tony doesn’t exactly feel comfortable mentioning Harley to Steve.

(And, in the end, it had been Pepper who dealt with Killian, but that is one verbal minefield Tony has no intention of walking into.)

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Ah, yes. The Iron Patriot.” 

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Don’t start, Rogers.”

Steve raises his hands in mock surrender. Tony’s eyes narrow further. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, his mouth curving into a wide smile. 

Tony blinks, his throat going a touch dry. It isn’t as blinding a smile as the one that greeted Tony after he fell from the portal above New York, but it comes close. And now Tony really wants to know what the fuck had been in that serum. Because everything about this guy is ridiculously over the top. Shoulders to waist ratio, the face, the smile. _The eyes._

(Seriously, the guy is too pretty for anyone’s good.) 

Tony manages to drag his thoughts back into safe waters when Steve’s face grows serious again. “But it should have been one of the Avengers.”

“Don’t sweat it, Cap,” Tony says with a half-shrug. “It’s water under the bridge, and it’s not like I asked and you guys didn’t come. Where you even in the country?”

Steve shakes his head, still looking vaguely apologetic and grim. “No. Lagos.”

“See? You were on a mission of your own.” 

“I still would have come if I’d known,” Steve states firmly, and there is not a shadow of a doubt in Tony’s mind that he is one hundred percent serious. The knowledge coils around Tony’s lungs and squeezes tight.

Tony clears his throat, smiles. “That... I appreciate it, Cap.”

A small frown appears on Steve’s forehead. “Steve. Call me Steve,” Steve says, now looking vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m not exactly on duty right now.”

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, ignoring the way his heart shudders for briefest of moments. “Steve.”

Steve’s answering smile is dazzling. Like Tony calling him by his name is a precious gift.

It makes Tony feel like the biggest asshole in the world. 

He scrubs the back of his neck, takes a deep breath. “Look, Steve, I think I owe you an apology.”

Steve tilts his head, considers Tony with a small smile. “For being an ass the last time we saw each other?” he offers, arching an eyebrow.

Tony grimaces, looks down, slides his hands into pockets. “Yeah, that,” he forces past the lump in his throat. “Look, I know you aren’t responsible for what happened anymore than I am. But... I was angry. And we were already at each other’s throats,” Tony trails off, takes a deep breath before he looks up. He isn’t certain what he expects - or even what he wishes - to see. 

(It sure as hell isn’t Steve, looking solemn and a bit sad.)

“I’m not good at dealing with things,” Tony offers, tries to keep his voice light and fails miserably.

Steve considers Tony in silence one long moment. Tony gives his best not to fidget under the weight of that gaze. He succeeds. _Mostly._

“You wanna make it up to me, Stark?” Steve says finally, his eyes glinting with mirth.

“Yeah?” Tony drawls, cautious.

“Buy me coffee,” Steve says simply, gives Tony a tiny smile, his cheeks coloring slightly. 

“Now?” Tony blurts out oh so smoothly. 

Steve snorts, and Tony is almost certain if he weren’t so fucking polite, he’d roll his eyes at Tony. “No, I have unfinished business here. Tomorrow, after you are done with Fury.”

Steve wants it to sound like a statement, but Tony can hear the question at the end of it. See the uncertainty in the small crease on Steve’s forehead.

Tony smiles, nods. He cannot help but note the way Steve’s shoulders relax at that. “Tomorrow then. But I need you to tell me something.”

“Yes?” 

“When you barged into Fury’s office today- and by the way, I’m eternally grateful for that visual. Why did you do it?”

Steve scrubs the back of his neck, looks down for a moment. When he looks up, he offers Tony a small half-smile, his right hand brushing against the spot on his sternum Tony knows all too well. “You _know_ why, Tony.”

Tony does. 

(But he wishes Steve said it out loud. He’s a greedy, self-centered bastard like that.) 

“Well then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Steve remains silent, nods.

Tony turns on his heel, and walks away. Makes it only three steps before Steve calls after him.

“Don’t you need my number?”

Tony looks over his shoulder at Steve, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Steve. You really think I can’t get it on my own?”

Steve shakes his head, chuckles in amusement. “Right. Genius.”

“Among other things,” Tony supplies, grins. “See you, Rogers.”

“See you, Tony.”

***

Tony stays in DC entire week.

He goes over Fury’s specs for him. Doesn’t break into SHIELD’s files.

(Oh, but he wants to. And it’s not only curiosity that whispers in Tony’s ear. He’s made a mistake by trusting Obie. He just might be making another with Fury.)

He also meets with Rogers for coffee every day.

And at the end of the week, Tony knows some things he did not at the beginning of it. 

Steve Rogers likes his coffee sweet. And not normal people sweet, but three spoons in one cup sweet.

(Tony cannot help but cringe each time he sees him add sugar to his coffee.) 

Steve Rogers doesn’t like peas. In fact, he rather strongly dislikes them. 

(Tony is fairly certain Steve will never again let Tony order his meal for him. _Ever_.)

Steve Rogers likes musicals.

(Tony almost bites through his lower lip in an effort of stopping himself from expressing his own opinion on the matter.)

Steve Rogers doesn’t like Star Wars.

(Okay. That one is a lie. But the bastard did make that claim, looking utterly serious. Then, after Tony almost choked on his own breath from outrage, proceeded to laugh his pert little ass off.)

“I’ll miss your company, Tony,” Steve says, smiling softly as he walks next to Tony, their shoulders almost touching.

“Of course you will,” Tony says with a shrug. “You’re working with people who had their sense of humor surgically removed.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“You’re too polite for your own good, Rogers. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Steve halts his steps when they arrive at the entrance to the garage, chuckles in amusement. “Actually, yes. A couple of times this week.”

“Must be someone smart.”

“He thinks he is.”

Tony gives Steve unamused look. A beat later, he clears his throat. “So. It has been fun, Rogers.”

“Yeah,” Steve says in a soft voice. “It was.”

“Look, if you’re ever in New York, swing by the Tower. I’ve... well, you kinda have your own floor there.”

Steve blinks, looking perplexed. “I have- _what_?”

Tony’s eyes widen, and he hurries to explain, forcing his idiotic heart to calm the fuck down. “Not only you. The others, too. The Avengers, I mean.”

“That’s... that’s too much, Tony,” Steve says, his eyes still looking far too wide and startled.

Tony frowns. “I have more than enough space there.”

“But-”

“Look, Steve, I’m being selfish here. I liked working with you. All of you. It was only for one day, and it didn’t exactly start well. But in the end...” Tony trails off, shrugs. “We did good that day.”

“Yeah, we did,” Steve agrees after a moment of silence, corner of his mouth curving into a smile.

A car horn sounds from behind Tony. He smiles, but even he knows it’s a strained smile. “That’s my ride. Well, take care of yourself Rogers,” Tony says and extends a hand to Steve.

For one moment Steve looks stricken. He glances at Tony’s hand, then back at Tony’s face. “Tony, are you- the last time we-”

“Oh shut up and take my hand, Rogers,” Tony demands, somewhat surprised his hand isn’t trembling. He feels it should. 

Steve’s face gets that stubborn look, but Tony merely sighs, says, “Please, Steve.” 

Steve’s eyes go wide, and in that moment he looks very young. Young, lost and vulnerable. But in the next, he squares his shoulders and juts out his chin. Then, he wraps his fingers around Tony’s.

And in that moment, as warmth engulfs Tony’s fingers and surges through his bloodstream, looking at Steve’s eyes full of amazement and longing, Tony becomes aware of one more thing he didn’t know until that moment.

(There is at least ninety-six percent chance that Tony Stark likes Steve Rogers. And it has nothing to do with magic, biology or whatever crap this entire soulmate business is.) 

And that? Means Tony is pretty much screwed.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony is down in the workshop when Bruce rushes inside, looking alarmed. Thankfully, there is not a trace of green anywhere on him.

(The list of those Tony would really avoid fighting against is not long, but Hulk is right there on the top.)

“You need to see this,” Bruce says, turning on the TV.

Tony turns in his chair, his eyebrows shooting up in amusement. 

“Don’t tell me you accidentally watched another episode of Kardashians,” Tony says, grinning. “Am I going to need to install parental controls?”

Bruce ignores him entirely, doesn’t even bother to pause to give Tony a long-suffering look. Something tightens low in Tony’s gut as he watches Bruce fumbling with the remote, his grin fading and then disappearing completely when Bruce finally finds the right channel.

Chaos. 

That is the only word that crosses Tony’s mind as he stares at the images on the TV screen. He slowly raises to his feet, his eyes glued to the screen, while his mind tries to process the sight of SHIELD’s helicarrier shooting another from the sky. While the third one does the exactly the same to the first one.

A harsh sound of breath being expelled from lungs precedes Bruce’s voice, weak and horrified, “My God.” 

“JARVIS?” Tony utters in a low voice, his gaze still locked on the TV screen. “What the hell am I watching?” 

“Working on it, Sir,” JARVIS offers, and the modulation of his voice gives an uncanny semblance of stunned disbelief. “There is not much information I can access, not from here, but it appears that SHIELD is- _has been_ compromised.”

Tony blinks, the sound of explosions and screams from the TV screen drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears. His swallows thickly. It doesn’t help. His throat still feels raw and tender, burning with anger and guilt. 

(Well, at least now he knows what his tech was used for. What he helped create.)

“... death of Director Fury it has come to light that SHIELD has been a cover for HYDRA,” JARVIS pauses in his report and Tony has a sudden, dizzying feeling of being transported to another reality, one where nothing makes sense. “The rest of information is rather sketchy, but so far it seems that the destruction of the helicarriers is the work of Captain Rogers.”

All air leaves Tony’s lungs, forced out by the gravity of JARVIS’ words, as the feeling of blinding panic surges from the pit of Tony’s stomach. Tony blinks, forcibly drags his eyes from the screen. It takes him a moment to realize his hands are trembling.

“Of course it is,” Tony mutters in a low, hoarse voice, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead. He can feel a dull throb pulsing underneath, promising to be one hell of a headache soon. 

Bruce’s eyes go wide with astonishment. “ _Steve_ did this?” 

“It appears so, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS informs. “There is also a mention of Natasha Romanov and one Sam Wilson. Unfortunately, there is not a lot of information available. Not through conventional means.” 

Tony shakes his head, trying to push his thoughts into a semblance of order and failing miserably. Also, there is now dread fueling the frantic beat of his heart along with anger and helpless frustration.

_What the hell had Steve gotten himself into?_

“And what about unconventional means, J?” Tony grits out, anger giving his voice a sharp edge.

“Tony,” Bruce says, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. “Maybe now isn’t the right time to do anything illegal.”

Bruce doesn’t say foolish or reckless, but Tony hears it anyway. Doesn’t particularly care.

Tony turns his head toward Bruce, anger surging bright and hot through his veins. “For fuck’s sake, Bruce,” Tony exclaims hotly, gesturing toward TV screen. “Do you see this? You really think careful is what we need right now? Look what being careful gave us.” 

“Yeah, I think now is exactly the time to be careful,” Bruce counters. Tony gives him an incredulous look, but Bruce merely continues in the same quiet, placating tone. “If SHIELD has been HYDRA all this time, do you really want to be poking around their files _now_? With the government and army getting involved? You’re not exactly their favorite person.”

Tony’s lips curl over his teeth in disdain. “Like they could catch me.”

Bruce fixes him with a level look. “Any other time, I’d agree with you. But right now?” Bruce says softly, his face drawn into an expression that is as kind as it is doubtful. “I don’t think so. You’re- I think you need to step back for a moment, calm down.”

Tony opens his mouth, considers Bruce’s words, clicks it shut. He takes a deep breath, releases it through his nose. His hand moves seemingly of its own volition, settling against that place on his sternum that still throbs with dull, hollow ache, shuts his eyes for a moment.

(Alive. Steve is alive. Whatever shit he’s in, he is still alive.)

_I still would have come if I’d known._

The memory of those words rises from the shadows of Tony’s mind, turning louder and louder, until it is no longer words, but a scream of accusation. 

Snapping his eyes open, Tony moves forward, unseeing, until he is stopped by someone’s grip on his elbow.

Red flashes on the edges of his vision as he yanks his arm back. When his vision clears he finds himself facing a grim looking Bruce who is now standing between Tony and the exit.

Tony’s body goes rigid, his eyes darting between Bruce and the door. He is fairly confident that his chances of winning a scuffle against Bruce are reasonably high. 

But he doesn’t want to test that theory. And not even because of how Hulk could grind him into paste.

“Bruce,” Tony says in a low voice. “You don’t want to be doing this.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Bruce answers, his mouth curved into a tight smile. He gives Tony a half-shrug, looking apologetic, but doesn’t move. 

Tony swallows a growl of frustration. “Look. I’m not going to do anything stupid. I promise.”

“Yeah, Tony, I’m- I’m not buying that. Sorry.”

Tony inhales sharply, screws his eyes shut. His heart is pounding an urgent beat against his breastbone, while every damn cell inside his body screams with insistent need to be where Steve is.

This is like a really fucked up game of chicken, Tony realizes with a touch of hysteria. He’s not sure how far Bruce is willing to take this. He’s not even certain how far he is ready to go.

(Tony of old wouldn’t blink. But that Tony is not who he is anymore.) 

Tony opens his eyes, looks at the man he’s come to think of as a friend, standing there and looking like he would rather be anywhere else right now, but not backing down because he thinks he is doing Tony a favor. It’s enough for Tony to blink first. 

“I’m telling you the truth,” Tony says, his voice more a sigh than anything else. “I just want to see that Steve is okay.”

Bruce’s eyes widen. He looks startled but it quickly shifts into suspicion. “You want to see that Steve is okay? _Steve Rogers_?” Bruce says, incredulous. “I know you guys patched things up there at the end, but that doesn’t explain why you are looking-” Bruce pauses, waves a hand in Tony’s general direction. “Well, a little crazed.”

Tony’s face draws into a grimace. It’s not like he can blame Bruce for doubting him. After all, he was a witness to them doing their best to verbally shred each other apart. 

Tony’s presses a hand against his sternum once again, squares Bruce with a level gaze. In the end, it is almost laughable how easy is to admit the truth he’s been trying to ignore ever since it became a part of his life.

“Yeah, I know. It’s crazy, right? But the thing is, Bruce,” Tony says, his mouth curving into a smile that hurts to maintain. “He’s my soulmate.” 

***

As it turns out, courtesy of Iron Man suit, arriving to DC is the easy part. 

Convincing those in charge to allow Tony to get past Steve’s armed guards is not as easy.

And the most difficult part? 

It is convincing himself to man up and enter Steve’s hospital room. 

(Tony is still working on that part.) 

Tony’s hand is resting against his sternum, but the steady warmth he feels there is not enough to relieve the pressure inside his chest. Pressure that builds with every second Tony spends staring at Steve’s bruised, battered face through the window of his hospital room.

It feels wrong to see Steve so weak, and hooked to the monitors. Captain America from Howard’s tales was larger than life, more a myth than an actual man.

(But there was always a man beneath the cowl, and it has taken actually meeting him for Tony to understand that. A man he’s come to like. A hell of a lot more than he’d thought possible. A hell of a lot more than is wise, too.)

Tony is too busy with his internal struggle to actually pay attention to his surroundings, so he doesn’t react when a strong hand grabs him by his shoulder and turns him around, and Tony finds himself face to face with a black man, scowling at him.

“What the fuck you- holy shit, you’re Tony Stark.”

Tony frowns, shrugs out of the stranger’s hold. “Just an fyi,” Tony says, keeping his voice level. He takes in the stranger’s posture - army, maybe? - then darts his gaze back to his face. Open, honest eyes. Well, whoever this guy is, he seems like a trustworthy person. “Manhandling? Not a polite way of greeting people.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” the stranger says, lifting his hands in apology. He inclines his head in the direction of Steve’s room. “But I saw you standing there, and this area is supposed to be closed off-” the stranger frowns and trails off into silence, smiles awkwardly. “Aaand of course you wouldn’t be here if you were a hostile. Right, my bad.”

Tony’s mouth twitches faintly. He decides he likes this guy. “No harm done,” he says and offers the stranger his hand. “Tony Stark, and you are?”

The stranger takes Tony’s offered hand immediately. “Sam Wilson,” he says, his mouth stretching into a wide smile. “I can’t believe I got to meet Captain America and Iron Man in the same week.”

Tony frowns, the stranger’s name stirring something in the back of Tony’s mind. A beat later he remembers. According to JARVIS, this guy and Natasha Romanov helped Steve destroy billions of worth of government property. 

(Tony is impressed.) 

“Well, Sam,” Tony says. “Want to tell me why exactly is Captain America currently unconscious and under armed guard? Also, why are there now three helicarriers on the bottom of the Potomac?”

Sam grimaces, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, man, I don’t know. I think it would be better if you waited until Steve wakes up.”

Tony presses his lips into a thin line, but clamps down on the agitation surging inside his chest. The guy just witnessed the transformation of a government agency into a terrorist organisation. He being careful is just sign of common sense.

“Okay, seems fair enough,” Tony says. He pauses, waits until he is certain his voice won’t break to ask what he _really_ wants to know. “Can you at least share who is responsible for Steve’s current state?”

Sam looks torn for a moment.

“He’s a friend,” Tony says in a low, heated voice, the words pouring out of his mouth seemingly without his conscious thought. “And I’ve seen him go through an alien invasion without taking this kind of beating. So, I’m asking you again, Sam, who did it?” 

Sam struggles with the decision for what seems an eternity. Then, he releases a heavy sigh, his face drawing into something almost pained. “Some guy from his past. I don’t- I don’t know how he’s alive, but seeing him really got to Steve.”

Tony swallows against the dryness of his throat, but doesn’t bother trying to calm the pounding of his heart. “You don’t happen to know his name?”

“Barnes,” Sam supplies instantly. “Bucky Barnes.” 

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. His heart stutters in his chest only to resume its wild rhythm. 

Tony knows that name, knows the stories surrounding Steve Rogers and his best friend James Buchanan Barnes.

_Bucky._

“Right,” Tony utters in a weak a voice. He tries to smile, but fails utterly in the attempt. He doesn’t understand why the fuck his chest suddenly feels like it is doing its goddamned best to collapse into itself. But he does know what he needs to do next. He offers Sam his hand. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll- I just remembered something I need to do. Right now. Away from here.”

Sam’s face goes through expressions of surprise, curiosity, caution; settling finally into something steely. He takes Tony’s hand, his grip sure and strong. “I don’t think that taking out Barnes will make Steve happy,” he says in a steady voice. Tony opens his mouth to protest, but Sam stops him by raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Not that I think you’d actually find him. The guy’s like a ghost.”

“Wanna bet?” Tony asks, but there is not a trace of the usual cockiness in his voice, only something raw and tender.

If Sam notices, he doesn’t mention it. “But there _is_ something you could do for Steve. If you got your suit.”

Tony tilts his head, suddenly curious. “You have my undivided attention, Sam.”

Sam’s mouth twitches, then spreads into a grin. “You’ll probably need to get wet.”

Tony blinks, perplexed. “I’m flattered, Sam, but I’m currently off the market.”

Sam snorts, looking amused. “Not my type anyway,” he says. A moment later, he grows serious. “It’s about Steve’s shield. It wasn’t with him where he was found.” 

Tony blinks, connecting the dots quickly, his mouth curving into a wide grin as something in his chest flutters with eager anticipation. “I’ll see what I can do, Sam. In the meantime, watch over him,” Tony says, inclining his head toward Steve’s room.

“You got yourself a deal, Stark.”

***

It takes Tony three hours to find Steve's shield.

But he doesn’t stay to wait for Steve to wake up. 

Sam gives him a strange look, but doesn’t press for an explanation.

Which, in truth, is very simple.

Tony Stark, who taunts terrorists and gods from legends, who carries a nuke on his back, is a coward.

(Always has been when it comes to those too close to his heart.)


	6. Chapter 6

Tony shouldn’t be surprised to see Steve Rogers. 

(Probably.)

Ever since he fished Steve’s shield from the Potomac, he’s been expecting to hear from him.

(Considering the guy is overly polite in normal circumstances, Tony cannot imagine Steve would be comfortable not expressing some form of gratitude for the return of his most valued possession.) 

Still. Tony barely registers the shift from ache into warmth in that familiar place behind his ribcage before the sound of his name - loud and insistent, as if it were repeated a couple of times - makes his head snap in the direction of the voice. 

Tony’s throat grows thick, and his heart, like a good little Pavlov’s dog, goes straight into overdrive when his eyes take in the sight of Steve Rogers standing at the entrance of the workshop, dressed in dark jeans, white T-shirt and a leather jacket, looking sheepish.

“Hello, Tony,” Steve says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Bruce told me you were down here, and your,” Steve’s forehead creases a bit as he trails off into silence, obviously in search of the right word, “AI let me inside.”

“JARVIS,” Tony supplies, dumbly, his eyes glued to Steve’s face. “J, say hello to Captain America.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS says in a tone that can be described as nothing but prim. Tony is pretty sure if JARVIS were human, he’d be standing at attention right now.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Kiss-ass,” he grumbles under his breath.

Steve’s eyes flick toward the ceiling for a split second, his smile widening fractionally. “You too, JARVIS,” he says. Then, he looks back at Tony. He frowns, gestures in Tony’s general direction. “Shouldn’t you- are you sure that is safe?”

Tony frowns in confusion. Then he remembers what he’d been doing when Steve interrupted him. “Oh, yeah,” Tony says, and turns off the welding torch, setting it down on the workbench. He waves a careless hand, grinning up at Steve. “Perfectly safe.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says slowly. He doesn’t appear convinced, but doesn’t press the issue. “Look, Tony,” Steve starts, but breaks off, scrubbing at the back of his neck, looking awkward. Almost uncertain.

It makes Steve look younger, but it also tugs at Tony’s heartstrings in all the wrong, dangerous and decidedly complicated ways. 

“You look good,” Tony blurts out, cringing inwardly. He barely manages to stop himself from banging his head against the workbench. 

Tony wishes he knew what is it about Steve that turns him either into a grade A asshole or an awkward teenager so he could ignore the shit out of it. 

(He is certain it is not the bond. Which is not reassuring. Quite the opposite.)

Steve blinks, looking startled for a moment. A beat later he lets out a soft chuckle, arching an eyebrow in amusement. “I suppose this is the playboy part of your repertoire, Tony?”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “You’re fucking hilarious, Rogers,” he remarks wryly. A breath later, he rises to his feet and gestures vaguely toward Steve’s face. “I meant... how long has it been? Five days since you’ve been lying in a hospital bag, looking like a Captain America-shaped piñata and now there is barely a bruise left.”

Steve’s smile falters, all traces of amusement draining from his face. “I heal fast,” he says in a carefully guarded voice. He regards Tony in silence for a long, and decidedly uncomfortable, moment. “You could have stayed, you know. I wish- I wish you had stayed.”

Tony’s entire body goes rigid. There’s something bitter in his mouth, a coil of anger around his throat. “And you could have called. Asked for help,” Tony snaps, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. He pauses, expels a harsh breath, adds in a quiet voice, “I would have come.”

Steve doesn’t look away. Not that it matters. Tony cannot read his gaze. It’s too well guarded.

(Tony shouldn’t feel bad, shouldn’t feel the cold, heavy weight of disappointment settling low in his gut. But he does.)

Steve swallows, a shadow passing over his features. He doesn’t look away, though. He sets his shoulders and fixes Tony with a level gaze. “I know. That’s why I didn’t call.”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. He succeeds in not flinching, but just barely. “Yeah, thanks, Rogers,” he remarks, forcing his mouth into a dry smile. “Really feeling the love. And trust.”

The muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches, his brow furrowing just a little. “There wasn’t time-”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit, Rogers. With the suit, I would have been there under an hour.” 

“- and it wasn’t your fight,” Steve finishes, his voice just a touch louder. 

Tony shoots him a dirty glare, leans back against the workbench, crossing his hands over his chest.

(He knows he is behaving like a petulant kid. Knows it. But he is too fucking angry - _and hurt, don’t forget hurt_ \- to care.) 

Steve stares at Tony in silence. Tony notes the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his nostrils flare. Knows where this is leading. He’s tempted to do an internal countdown until the explosion. But it never comes. Suddenly and without warning, Steve’s face crumples.

Just like that. 

Anger, frustration: all gone. It’s just... Tony doesn’t think the raw misery he is now facing is an improvement.

It really, really isn’t.

(Maybe Tony is nothing but a giant asshole. Maybe that’s what he’ll always be.) 

“God, Tony, can’t you just-” Steve’s voice breaks on the last word. He gives Tony a pained look. A beat later, he moves as if to leave. 

For a second, Tony quite literally cannot breathe for the panic that surges inside his chest and grips his throat in a steely hold. He doesn’t want Steve to leave. Not like this. Not angry and hurt, and looking so painfully lost. 

But Steve doesn’t leave. He hangs his head low, and just stands there: breathing harshly, with his hands clenched tightly into fists by his sides.

Tony swallows heavily before pushing himself off the workbench. He keeps his movements slow and careful, as if Steve is a wild animal, ready to bolt at any moment.

(Tony knows it is an illusion. Knows Steve’s instinct will never ever be flight. It is, and always will be, fight.) 

Tony halts his steps when he comes within a touching distance of Steve. He can see Steve’s body going stiff when Tony - following a foolish, reckless and utterly insane impulse - reaches out, and folds both his hands around Steve’s right one.

The surge of warmth that floods Tony’s senses no longer comes as a blinding rush of something near electric, but a steady and slow flow, like basking in the sunlight.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath. Tony can feel the muscles of his arm coiling, knows that he cannot do anything to stop Steve from yanking his hand out of Tony’s grip.

(Well, if there is anything Tony can do it is _talk_. Even if it is utter nonsense. And he has not no idea what the hell he is doing.)

“It’s okay,” Tony says in a quiet, calming voice. Watches as Steve’s eyelashes flutter closed, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s okay now. It’s over. It’s done. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Steve.”

Tony cannot say who moves first - maybe they do it simultaneously - but, between one breath and the next, he is standing with his arms full of shaking super soldier, Steve’s breaths hot and wet on the exposed skin of Tony’s collarbone, his fingers gripping Tony’s waist almost too tightly.

They remain like that - Steve clutching at Tony with desperate strength, who, in turn, is murmuring soothing nonsense against the crown of Steve’s head - for a couple of minutes, or an eternity, Tony isn’t sure. He doesn’t care.

(He is falling for Steve. Doesn’t particularity want it, but he knows it is happening. Knows it by the beat of his heart, by the cadence of his breath. By the desperate need that is spreading through his bloodstream with the devastation of a forest fire. Need to clutch at Steve and never, ever let go. And not one of those things has anything with Steve being Tony’s soulmate.)

Slowly, by increments, Steve stops shaking and his breath returns to normal, but he doesn’t attempt to extract himself out of Tony’s embrace. Tony is pathetically, foolishly grateful for that.

(It hurts, like having a hot knife twist and turn inside his chest, to know that Steve would never allow Tony to get this close, never seek comfort from Tony were it not for that fucking bond.)

“You’re not staying, are you?” Tony asks finally, his voice thick with myriad of emotions that are roiling within the hollow of his chest, very little of them pleasant.

(He knows who is the cause of Steve’s momentary breakdown, hates that ugly and selfish part of him that wishes Bucky Barnes had just stayed a memory.)

Steve goes rigid in Tony’s arms. Then, slowly, he lifts his head so he could look into Tony’s face. Tony has no idea what he sees there but it sends a shadow across his features. 

Tony knows it is going to happen, so he merely loosens his hold on Steve’s back, watches as Steve steps back, his expression a strange combination of embarrassment and resolve.

“No, I- there is something I have to do.”

Tony doesn’t mean to ask. He really, really doesn’t. Knows it’s not a wise thing to do.

(Yeah. The problem with that? Tony doesn’t usually care whether or not what he does can be considered wise.)

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

Steve goes deathly still all of a sudden. Something flashes in the depths of his gaze - fear? panic? - but it disappears quickly, smoothing into carefully blank expression.

“What are you talking about?”

Tony huffs out an impatient sound. He doesn’t bother to comment on Steve's acting skills. Or the lack thereof. “You haven’t spoken with Wilson?” 

Steve’s face draws into a frown. “He told me you were there, at the hospital. Then he returned me the shield. Said you-” Steve breaks off, his face softening with a warm, almost hesitant smile. He is looking at Tony with bright, earnest eyes, and Tony _cannot fucking breathe_. “That’s- Tony, you cannot know what you’ve done for me.”

Tony stops him with a raised hand, something ugly writhing in the pit of his stomach. “No need to thank me, Steve,” Tony says, curves his mouth into a strained smile. “The shield is yours.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t need to go search for it at the bottom of a river.”

Tony lets out a small chuckle. It comes out far too bitter. “Aren’t we friends, Steve?” he asks in a low voice. “Isn’t that what friends do for each other?”

Steve steps forward before Tony has a chance to move, grabs Tony by the shoulders. It’s not a strong grip, meant to reassure not confine. “Of course we are friends, Tony,” he says, sounding urgent, just shy of desperate. “I- you’re-”

Tony doesn’t really want to listen further. It’s a good thing, being Steve’s friend. Tony wants that.

(But it’s not all he wants.)

“Then don’t mention it anymore,” Tony cuts Steve off, shrugging out of his hold. Steve doesn’t try to stop him when he take a step back.

Steve gives Tony a confused look, his eyes darting across Tony’s face as if searching for something. He opens his mouth, but Tony doesn’t give him a chance to speak. 

“I know about Barnes,” Tony says, watches as Steve’s face shifts through a dozen different emotions before settling into an expression so carefully blank Fury would be proud of it. 

“I could help you find him,” Tony offers when Steve remains silent. He is somewhat surprised with the steadiness of his voice. “It’s a big world out there. Let me make it smaller for you.”

(It’s not generosity. He wants Steve to stay.)

Something shifts in Steve’s posture, a minute relaxing of shoulders. But his face remains blank, his jaw set with determination.

“I can’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

“And I am thankful, Tony, I really am, but I cannot accept your offer,” Steve says in that fucking tone that never fails to make Tony’s hackles rise.

Tony swallows back a cry of _why the fuck not_ , takes a deep breath. “If that’s what you want, Rogers,” Tony says, shrugs. Then, because he cannot help himself, because he is weak and pathetic, he narrows eyes at Steve, grumbles, “Even if it’s stupid and makes no fucking sense to anyone but stubborn super soldiers.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches as if Steve is fighting a smile, and loosing miserably. But there is still a shadow in his eyes. Tony is willing to bet it has a name. 

(A stupid name, at that.)

“You have responsibilities, Tony, and I don’t want to be a bother,” Steve says, then raises a hand when Tony opens his mouth. “And Sam is coming with me, so it’s not like I’ll be alone.”

Tony frowns, ignoring a childish pang of jealousy that flickers and fades inside his chest at that. “Okay then,” Tony says, his voice caught between sounding resigned and frustrated. “And good luck, I guess.”

Steve releases a deep breath, fixes Tony with a look that is simultaneously fond and exasperated. “I will return, Tony” he states firmly.

Tony’s heart gives a heavy lurch, his chest tightening painfully. “I’ll find you and kick your ass if you don’t, Rogers.”

Steve snorts. “You wish, Stark.”

Tony’s mouth curves over his teeth, his eyes flashing with challenge. “You and me, Rogers. The moment you get back. I’ll not have my honor be impugned by the likes of you.”

Steve’s mouth stretches into a grin, his eyes gleaming brightly, and just for a moment, he looks happy.

“You got it, Stark.”

***

When Natasha Romanov saunters out of the elevator to the penthouse three months after the fall of SHIELD, Tony merely looks up from the StarkPad in his hand, and grins lazily at her.

“I believe you are a month late, Miss Rushman,” he drawls.

She arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “I had to tie a couple of loose ends,” she says evenly. She nods toward the large screen window behind Tony. The letter is not visible from here, but Tony knows exactly what she is hinting at. “Interesting choice of decoration, Stark.”

Tony’s grin widens. “It seemed appropriate,” he says, and leans back against the back of the sofa.

She studies him in silence one moment. Tony returns her gaze, but doesn’t attempt to translate her expression. She never lets anyone see what she is truly thinking.

A small smile flickers across as she darts her gaze across the penthouse, then returns it back to Tony.

“I remember something about my floor?” she says, and Tony smiles.

***

Barton is more of a surprise.

He arrives one day, with nothing but a backpack slung over his shoulder, grin on his face and a casual. “Hi, man,” for a greeting.

Then he proceeds to rid Tony’s fridge of most of the food there.

(Tony decides that Barton is an asshole. Then again, so is Tony. It should make for interesting times in the Tower.)

***

It’s five months into the fall of SHIELD, and almost as much since Steve went into places unknown in search of Barnes, when Tony realizes that having Bruce, Natasha and Barton living - even if they occasionally disappear for various lengths of time - in the Tower is finally patching a hole inside him, left in the wake of Pepper breaking things off.

Tony is even approaching something that could be considered happiness.

(They are even looking into taking down known HYDRA bases. Courtesy of the intel Romanov provided. Intel which, Tony is willing to bet, comes directly from a sarcastic, paranoid, and supposedly dead motherfucker.) 

But Tony is also waiting. Waiting for the most important member of his newly found and not only a little dysfunctional family to return.

(And if he has JARVIS monitor the internet and the news feeds for anything that could clue him into Barnes’ potential location... well. That is for him to know.) 

Waiting alone would be difficult enough considering Tony’s not so impressive reserve of patience, but waiting while alternately shifting from helpless frustration into frantic concern? Is hell. 

And Tony is obviously not hiding his fraying composure well. A fact Natasha points out to him one morning at the breakfast table. _Before_ Tony’s had his first cup of coffee.

“You know he’s coming back, right?” Natasha remarks casually, glancing up from her plate. “After he accepts that ghosts cannot be found.”

(Thankfully, they are alone at the table. But that is probably intentional.)

Tony almost chokes on his coffee. “What?” he sputters.

“Steve,” she says, her tone casual. Tony doesn’t trust it in the least.

Tony carefully sets down his cup. Then looks at Natasha, keeping his face neutral. “It’s up to him,” Tony says with a casual half-shrug. “I invited him, it’s not like I can drag him here.”

Natasha’s mouth curves into something almost affectionate. Tony blinks, startled. 

“He mentioned you, you know. A couple of times.”

Tony tilts his head, grins weakly. “I make a good first impression.”

She rolls her eyes as she stands up, but the squeeze she gives him on the shoulder is reassuring. “He didn’t mention wanting to punch you in the face, Stark, so I doubt he was referring to your charming performance in Stuttgart.”

Tony manages to keep himself from taking the offered bait until she is almost at the kitchen door.

“What did he say about me?” Tony asks, cursing inwardly the tremor in his voice.

She smiles, but, once again, it looks almost fond. “That you’re a good man.” 

Tony lets out a sharp breath, his eyes widening in wonder and his heart swelling at least three sizes in his chest. 

Tony isn’t sure how long he just sits there, staring at nothing, but when he finally gathers himself, forcing his expression into something that is not the look of a besotted fool, Natasha is long gone. 

***

When the elevator door closes after Steve, Tony slowly rises from the couch, takes in the slumped line of Steve’s shoulders, the weariness clouding his eyes.

“You look like shit,” Tony informs Steve, surprising himself with how firm his voice sounds considering the chaos Steve’s unexpected return has unleashed inside Tony’s head and chest. 

A strained smile flickers across Steve’s face. “I feel like shit,” he offers in a low, tired voice. He shifts on his feet, dropping his travel bag on the floor, but not moving forward. Looking like moving at all is something beyond his power. 

For a moment, he doesn’t say a thing, just stares at Tony with intent eyes. Then, when Tony starts thinking his heart will beat itself out of his chest, Steve breathes out a heavy sigh, and drags trembling fingers across his face. “Is- is the invitation to stay here still open?”

Tony really wants to punch the fool. And considering Steve looks like he is standing upright only by the power of that impossibly stubborn will, he is fairly certain he could even land a blow.

“Welcome home, Steve,” Tony says instead, offers Steve a small smile.

When Steve’s eyes flicker with relief, gratitude and affection, the corner of his mouth tugging up into the beginning of a smile, Tony feels his chest swell with an emotion he is fairly certain is happiness.


	7. Chapter 7

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions,

Tony supposes it can be considered poetic justice. The fact that, if by some chance there is an actual Hell, Tony will have a rather comfortable walk to its front gate courtesy of his own failures.

He just hopes his failures won’t be judged by their gravity. 

For years Tony was certain that trusting Obie enough to leave SI completely in his hands, then electing to live a life of leisure while his weapons killed innocents all across the world was the lowest he could sink.

Yeah, well, it turns out Tony was wrong. 

(Deeply, profoundly wrong.)

But that is not the beginning.

Beginning includes a secret door and a large cave filled with things straight from Tony’s nightmares.

There is also a vision.

(A horrifying vision Tony will never be able to forget. Not even when he learns of the how and the why behind it. He is pretty sure it will stay with him until his dying day.)

But yeah, the vision. The beginning.

Unsurprisingly, like the majority of Tony’s life these days, it is all about Steve.

Okay. Not all of it is about Steve. The others are in it, too. Thor, Natasha, Bruce, even that asshole Barton. All of them, dead. And Tony is alive, kneeling next to Steve’s still body, searching with trembling fingers for a pulse, knowing he isn’t going to find one. But he cannot pull his hand away, doesn’t want to admit the truth. Tony cannot breathe, cannot think, his chest is cracking apart under the weight of pain, grief and loss... and then Steve’s hands shoots up, grabs Tony’s wrist and oh, God, there is accusation in his eyes and on his lips, and Tony cannot, he _cannot_ \- 

When the vision ends and Tony’s mind snaps back into reality, Tony finds himself drenched in cold sweat and trembling, while his stomach roils and his lungs burn for air he cannot seem to get enough of. Maybe this is what madness feels like, Tony thinks, but does nothing to stop the scream of denial and desperation in his very core, his mind frantically scrambling for a solution, for something that will make sure the images still playing in front of Tony’s mind’s eye will never come to pass.

(The vision also shatters the last of Tony’s denial, forcing him to accept the truth he’s been trying to ignore for quite some time. The truth of Tony being completely, foolishly and desperately in love with Steve Rogers.)

***

“Maybe we should at least tell Steve,” Bruce tries for what Tony hopes is the last time.

(But that is what Tony’s been hoping for the last five times, so.)

Tony’s fingers freeze half-way to the digital display, his eyes screwing shut for a second. He slowly lowers his hand, clenches his jaw and swallows a frustrated growl, giving a silent thank you that he has his back turned to Bruce.

(There is an undercurrent of despair to his every thought and every action. Perhaps even every breath since that little witch messed with his mind. And that isn’t something Tony can allow Bruce to see. Getting him aboard with the plan was difficult enough.) 

“Yeah, not a good idea,” Tony says, sharper than he intended. He waits a moment, then takes a deep, steadying breath. He cannot afford to antagonize Bruce, he needs him. There’s no way he’ll be able to pull this off alone in just three days. 

(But Tony cannot allow distractions, not with how little time they have. Not those in the form of Bruce’s guilty conscience, or his own mind dragging him back to that cave and that fucking vision.)

Fixing his face into a casual expression, Tony turns to face Bruce. “Steve is the last person we should be telling this,” he says lightly, gives a half-shrug. The crease of worry on Bruce’s face deepens. “Okay, maybe second to last. Thor is probably the last one we should tell about Ultron.”

“I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

“Who? Steve?” Tony asks, the corner of his mouth curving faintly. He steps round the work table, glances at the data that is still running, then back at Bruce. “I know he’s smart and not as much a stick in the mud as I previously believed. But _this_ ,” Tony pauses, indicates at the digital displays showing their work, “is way out of his comfort zone. He’d never understand. No, scratch that. He wouldn’t even make an attempt at understanding.” Pausing, Tony shakes his head, his mouth sketching a mirthless smile. “He’d shut us down faster than you can blink.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Bruce concedes. Then, at Tony’s snort of disbelief, he holds up both hands in surrender. “Okay, I admit it, you are right. So, we’re not telling anyone. But Tony,” Bruce breaks off, fixing Tony with an insistent stare. “What about you and Steve?”

Tony freezes, his throat closing with panic for an instant. “What about us?”

Bruce clears his throat, gives Tony an apologetic look. “Aren’t- isn’t this going to affect, you know, the two of you?”

Tony blinks, then does it again. It takes him a couple of moments to realize what Bruce is implying. Then a couple more to make certain that when he opens his mouth, it won’t be to burst into hysterical laughter.

“There’s no two of us,” Tony states, in a more or less calm voice. “We’re just friends, so get your head out of the gutter, Banner.” 

Bruce frowns, gives Tony a long, considering look. “Huh,” he utters finally, not sounding convinced.

Tony narrows his eyes. “If this is about that soulmate bullshit, I already explained-”

Tony never gets to finish that sentence. A shrill beep sounds from one of the computers. When Tony whips his head to the side, he sees the monitor flashing red, the word FAILED blinking at him.

“Fuck,” Tony grits out through clenched teeth, trying but failing to ignore the chill of dread tightening around his heart.

Throwing a glance at the clock, Tony curls his hands into fists, sucks in a harsh breath.

Fifty-five hours remain.

Fifty-five hours to make certain Tony will never kneel next to Steve’s lifeless body. 

***

Fifty-nine hours later Tony will find himself sitting in the wreckage of the penthouse, breathing heavily, and trying to understand where it all went wrong.

How the hell could he fuck up so spectacularly. 

He will also wonder, while biting on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, was it only an hour ago that he had Steve looking at him with warm and fond eyes, hiding a wide smile behind his hand.

An hour shouldn’t be enough to reduce a person’s life to shattered pieces, lying scattered on the ground. Shouldn’t be enough to hollow out anyone’s chest of happiness and content and replace them with guilt and shame.

But it is.

***

Tony inhales deeply, exhales.

Then he does it again. And once more, just in case.

“Yeah, this is stupid,” Tony mutters under his breath, but the door he’s been staring at for the past ten or so minutes, doesn’t offer an opinion one way or the other.

Tony scrapes his fingers through his hair, gives the door a dirty look, but doesn’t move to open it.

Tony is fairly certain that if a person is capable of creating a powerful robot with massive anger issues, intent of humanity’s extinction, said person should be capable of opening a fucking door.

(But if it weren’t for the damned robot, Tony wouldn’t even be standing in front of this particular door, so it’s a moot point anyway.)

Although, there is a certain irony in the fact that were the circumstances different, Tony would be offering silent prayers to whatever deity made it possible for Tony Stark to share a bed with Steve Rogers for a night.

(Even if, in this instance, it quite literally means sharing a bed, and nothing else. And yes, Tony _is_ that pathetic.)

Now, though?

Tony is seriously considering sleeping in the barn, especially since the last time he and Steve were alone together, Steve had ripped a log in half. With his bare hands. Because Tony taunted him. With words that hit too close to home. 

(Tony really should have known better, should have been better, but Steve’s silent disappointment was driving him crazy. He wanted Steve to tear him a new one, to yell at him, to do something to acknowledge the fact that Tony betrayed his trust. And possibly initiated end of the world.) 

Just another brilliant plan that blew right into Tony’s face. 

And what kind of logic is that, anyway? If he gets Steve to vent his anger, everything will be fine? Everything will be forgiven and Steve will smile at him again? Look at him as if Tony is a good man? Like Tony deserves it?

(So maybe Tony knows what kind of logic that is. A logic of a desperate, drowning man. The kind that grasps at straws when fighting against the river current.)

“Screw this,” Tony mutters, and twists the door knob with a lot more force than necessary, pushes the door open, and freezes in the doorway. 

Steve is sitting on the bed on the far side of the room, head bowed and face drawn in concentration, holding tweezers over his right hand, palm splayed up.

It’s such a mundane scene, especially in the light of the entire mess with Ultron, Tony’s mind whites out for a second and his breath hitches in his throat.

(Tony can even imagine it. That this, this damn _farm_ of all things, is not Barton’s, but his and Steve’s. That there are no robots bent on destruction, no lies and broken trust, just Steve, sitting there, looking grumpy and _adorable_ , and there is nothing stopping Tony from walking over to the bed, straddling Steve’s lap and kissing away the deepening crease on Steve’s brow.) 

“Damn it,” Steve mutters, frustrated, dragging Tony out of his daze.

“Language,” Tony pipes up without thinking, the corner of his mouth curving faintly. He remembers then, a second too late, that inside jokes and gentle teasing are something he forfeited when he created Ultron.

(Or was it earlier? When he made the decision to try, and didn’t tell his teammates? Didn’t tell Steve?) 

Steve snaps his head up, lowers his hands. There is a small crease on his forehead that smooths over when his gaze locks on Tony’s. There is even a hint of a rueful smile in the corner of his mouth. “That is going on my tombstone, right?”

Bewildered, Tony remains frozen in the doorway; unable to look away, or move. Only his heart - foolish in its desperation - defies the stillness, beating a wild rhythm against his breastbone.

A rhythm that feels far too much like hope.

Steve blinks, looking confused for a moment. “You plan on standing there entire night?” Steve asks after a moment, inclining his head toward the door, his eyes careful, and not moving an inch from Tony’s face.

Tony blinks, clears his throat. “Yeah, right. The door,” he mutters, like a fool he obviously is. Turning, he closes the door, using the fact that Steve cannot see his face to get himself under some measure of control.

When he turns around, Steve is still watching him, head tilted to the side, expression unreadable. Not angry, though. Just intent. It makes Tony want to bolt, but he grits his teeth and walks over to the bed, sits down. As far as he can from Steve.

“An interesting hobby you have there,” Tony says, tilting his head toward the tweezers in Steve’s left hand.

A faint flush appears on Steve’s cheeks. “Ah. That,” he says in a tight voice. He hesitates a moment, then sighs in defeat. He holds up his right hand, palm up. Tony glances down, noting the splinters, then up at Steve, who is looking at Tony with a long-suffering expression. “Come on, let me have it, Stark.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Tony says flatly.

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks amused now. “That doesn’t seem up to your usual standards, Tony.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “So you’ve been walking around with your hands looking like pincushions for three hours? Because you didn’t want me to rib you?”

“Not three hours,” Steve corrects him, his brow creasing in that familiar frown. He holds up his left hand. “I finished the left one. And then we had dinner and Fury was-” Steve trails off into silence at Tony’s incredulous look. 

“Give me that,” Tony demands, snatching the tweezers from Steve’s hand. Then he grabs Steve’s right hand and pulls it closer. Steve allows the rough treatment, still regarding Tony with that unreadable expression. 

With one last glare at Steve’s face - it’s amazing how he can be the embodiment of right, proper and wholesome, but also a stubborn and reckless fool - Tony begins pulling the splinters from Steve’s right hand. 

Tony manages to pull three splinters from Steve’s hand before the silence in the room becomes stifling. And Tony becomes far too aware how close he is sitting to Steve. Close enough there is barely any space left between their thighs. 

Close enough that all it takes is Tony lifting his head and leaning forward, and they would be kissing. Well, in Tony’s mind they would. In Tony’s mind, Steve would open his mouth under Tony’s, press him down on the bed, and peel his clothes off. Would drag his fingers and mouth along every inch of Tony’s skin, and Tony would be allowed to do the same to Steve. No, not only allowed. Begged, pleaded, longed for. But the reality is something entirely different.) 

“You know, this is why people don’t use their hands to chop wood, Steve,” Tony quips just to break the silence.

Tony expects Steve to make some wry remark. It doesn’t come. Instead, Tony can feel the tensing of Steve’s muscles underneath his fingers.

_Good job, Stark. Why not remind the guy what an assshole you were. Too bad he doesn’t own a puppy so you could kick it in front of his eyes._

Pausing in his work, but not releasing his hold on Steve’s hand, Tony carefully raises his head, fully prepared to see Steve scowling at him.

Tony is, once again, very much in the wrong. 

“I shouldn’t have done that. It was excessive and stupid,” Steve says in a low voice. Regret and shame are evident on his face, but he holds Tony’s gaze unflinchingly. “And uncalled for.”

Tony blinks, perplexed. A moment later, he pulls back, reluctantly relinquishing his hold on Steve’s hand. “Oh, it was totally called for,” he says, the words coming out jagged and sharp, leaving a bitter tang in his mouth. “I was there, remember? I pushed you, Steve. You only pushed back.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Steve insists, his expression grim. He glances down at his right hand, folds it into fist. When he looks up, his mouth is twisted into a pained smile. “What if Ultron was right? What if war is all I’m fit for?” Steve’s words break off into a low, mirthless chuckle. It scrapes at the inside of Tony’s chest. “A weapon, grown in a lab.”

Tony’s throat goes dry, raw with misery and guilt. Tony said it himself, didn’t he? One of the first things he ever said to Steve.

_Everything special about you came out of a bottle._

“That’s bullshit, and you know it, Rogers,” Tony says, stands up. He lifts his hand, intent on rubbing his forehead, realizes he is still holding the tweezers. He let out a huff of annoyance, walks over to the night cabinet, slams the damn thing down on it. He throws a glance over his shoulder at Steve, presses his mouth into a thin line. “Ultron is just an upgraded version of that kid who bullies others on the playground. Being a dick is all he knows.” 

Steve doesn’t say a thing, just watches Tony with weary eyes. Tony shakes his head, turns, crosses his hands over his chest.

“ _I_ should know,” he says in a low, tight voice. 

Steve’s expression turns stubborn, resolute as he rises to his feet but doesn’t move to come closer. “That’s not true,” Steve says, and Tony has to clench his teeth to stop himself from saying something insane. But it’s hard. So fucking rad while Steve stands there, looking sincere, his ridiculously blue eyes open and honest. Offering Tony all he wants, but doesn’t deserve. “You’re not- you’ve made a mistake, Tony, but you’re a good man.”

“Not really feeling it right now,” Tony admits in a voice that sounds foreign to him; thin, high, and brittle like dry leaves. He releases a heavy sigh, fixes Steve with wary eyes. “You can’t tell me you’re not angry with me, Steve.”

Steve opens his mouth, but clicks it shut in the next moment. Tony counts it as a hollow victory. 

(It’s not victory at all. Just hollow ache, pulsing in sync with Tony’s heart.)

“Yeah,” Tony mutters in a quiet, resigned voice, scrubs his fingers across his face. He knows what he needs to do. Has known it for a while now, but refused to admit it.

(There is no denying the truth now. Not when it stares at him through Steve’s eyes.) 

Taking a deep breath, Tony lifts his chin, gives Steve a level stare. Something like alarm flickers in Steve’s eyes. Tony doesn’t give him chance to voice it. 

“When this mess is done,” Tony says, his voice steady. Steve's eyes go wide, the alarm in them shifting into panic, an urgent utterance of, ‘Tony,’ falling from his lips. Tony ignores it entirely. “I am removing myself from the Avengers’ active roster. Effective immediately.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve says in a harsh voice that almost - _almost_ \- sounds like command. He takes a step forward, then freezes. A full-body shudder shakes his frame. As if it is taking him everything he has to stay still. “That’s- no, Tony.” 

Tony’s mouth curves into a bitter grin. “Can’t order me not to quit, Cap,” he says, feigning nonchalance. Steve’s eyes are almost grey now. It’s like watching storm clouds gather over clear blue sky. A dark chuckle rolls out of Tony’s throat. “Don’t really see a reason why you would even bother.”

“Don’t make decisions for me, Tony,” Steve snaps, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Tony’s gaze darts down, notes the way Steve is clenching and unclenching his fingers. “Don’t assume you know how I feel.”

“You haven’t been paying attention, Rogers,” Tony drawls, all bluster and challenge he doesn’t feel in the slightest. “The entire point of me quitting is so I wouldn’t get the fucking chance _to do it again_!” 

Tony is shouting by the end of that sentence - loud and desperate - his chest heaving with heavy breaths, his entire body trembling.

And Steve. Steve is looking at him with wide eyes, anger bleeding into stunned surprise.

“Tony,” Steve begins, his voice gentle. To Tony it feels like nails leaving bloody grooves in the flesh of his heart. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Sucking in a harsh breath, Tony forces his body under control. He tilts his head, squares Steve with a knowing gaze. “It’s amazing how rarely we get exactly what we want, isn’t it, Rogers?” Tony says in a flat, empty voice. Steve winces, as if Tony hit him. In the next moment, his face goes entirely blank. Tony curls his fingers into fists, digs his nails into the palms of his hands. Something inside his chest trashes like a wounded animal, howling in pain. 

“I need to get some air,” Tony mutters under his breath.

When he moves forward, he half expects Steve to stop him. 

Steve doesn’t.

***

Tony isn’t certain how much time he spends wandering around Barton’s farm.

(Even among the entire madness of Ultron and Tony admitting to himself that he loves Steve, wants Steve in all the cheesy, domestic, ordinary ways, the fact that Barton has a family, that he lives on a farm is almost the most surreal part of it all.)

He entertains the thought of sleeping in the barn, but decides against it. It would be a concession Tony is not willing to make.

When he returns to the guest room, Steve is already lying in bed, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight spilling through the window.

Tony doesn’t see his face, which is a blessing, considering how close Tony is to saying ‘fuck this’ and running away.

Tony doesn’t run away. He takes off the shirt he borrowed from Clint and the sneakers. Then, after taking a steadying breath, he lifts the covers and climbs into the bed, careful to keep as much distance between Steve and himself as is possible.

He stares into darkness, too wired up to sleep, his mind going in all directions, not all of them tame, when a soft sigh breaks the silence, freezing Tony’s heart and lungs for a split second.

It sounds, strangely - _impossibly_ \- like relief. 

*** 

“You know, if this works, we maybe don't walk away,” Tony says into the com line. It’s not a warning, not really. Just stating a cold, hard fact. 

(This is Tony’s mess, and if he has to pay the ultimate price to clean it... well, he is a businessman, he knows a bargain when he sees one. But Thor shouldn’t. Tony hopes he won’t.)

“Maybe not,” comes the swift reply. 

Tony swallows a quip, feels his mouth curve into a faint smile. Only to freeze there when his com crackles to life, and Steve’s voice fills his ear. 

“I heard what you said to Thor,” Steve says, forced lightness of his voice doing nothing to mask the worry. 

Tony swallows a sigh, throws a quick glance at the vibranium spike above his head. He cannot drag this out.

“It’s a possibility, Cap, not certainty.”

“I’m asking for certainty,” Steve says, pauses for a beat. “I will need you to make it, Shellhead.”

A short bark of surprised laughter tears from Tony’s throat. “Really, Rogers? You’re stealing lines from Romanov now?”

A beat, then, “Who do you think came up with it first?”

A hint of laughter in Steve’s voice, and more than just a hint of smugness, coil tight around Tony’s throat. Tony swallows, hard, and it isn’t burn of guilt and regret that he tastes, but the soft ache of longing. 

Another upward glance drags Tony back to the present. There really isn’t time for this. Tony opens his mouth, intent on reminding Steve of that fact, when Steve’s voice, stripped of all lightness, once again fills his ears.

“Yesterday you didn’t give me time to explain myself.”

Tony lets out a soft chuckle. “We’re kinda low on time _now_ , Steve.” Clenching his jaw together, Tony forces out the next words. Each one scrapes the inside of his throat. “You have the right to be angry, Steve. Hell, I’ve made the same decision twice. I’m actually surprised you’re still willing to talk to me.”

“It- it doesn’t matter, Tony.” 

An incredulous noise falls from Tony’s mouth. “Look down, Steve. You’ll notice it _really_ does.” 

“You want to argue with me _now_? Seriously, Tony?” 

Tony shrugs, even if Steve cannot see him. Glances up. Steels himself.

“I feel obligated to point out that’s kinda our thing, Rogers,” Tony says, sighs. “Also, I need to blow up this rock now. So-”

“You didn’t trust me,” Steve cuts him off, urgency giving his voice a high, breathless quality. “And that hurt. But it doesn’t matter now. Tony, I- I need you in my life. I need you to argue with me, to make me see past my beliefs, to tell me I’m a fossil who needs to let go of things.” 

_Yeah, like that ever worked_ , Tony wants to say, but swallows the words. “I won’t change my mind,” he says instead.

“I know,” Steve’s voice in no more than a whisper now, heavy with resignation and sorrow. “And I’m not trying to change your mind. I just need you to come out of this alive.”

“I’m not that eager to kick the bucket, Rogers.”

“This is not the time to make stupid jokes,” Steve growls, low, exasperated. _Desperate_. Then, quieter, “Promise me. Say you will return.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Tony sighs.

“Just fucking promise me, Tony,” Steve snaps.

Tony opens his mouth, the word ‘language’ ready on the tip of his tongue, but it’s ‘I promise,’ that comes out instead.

***

Tony keeps his promise.

And his word.

And when he drives off the compound of the new Avengers’ facility, he keeps his gaze on Steve’s silhouette in the rear view mirror until it disappears from sight entirely.

(Sight, yes. Mind, not so much.)

***

It’s Saturday, and Tony is still bleary eyed from only three hours of sleep and there is not enough coffee in his system to process the sight of Steve Rogers - looking way too fucking chipper this early in the morning - sitting behind the kitchen counter, and smiling brightly at Tony.

“FRIDAY let me in,” Steve says in lieu of a greeting, pushing a mug with coffee in Tony direction. “Morning, Tony.”

Something, might have been a word or just noise, Tony isn’t sure, leaves his mouth as he makes a beeline for the cup of still steaming dark bliss.

It’s only after there is only about a third of coffee left in Tony’s mug that his mind finally starts catching up, supplying him with a few important facts. Like, Steve looking far too smug and pretty, sitting there and grinning at Tony, while not really having a reason to be there. 

“I was in the neighborhood,” Steve says calmly as he reaches for his own mug. Tony blinks, dismayed. He really doesn’t need Steve being a mind reader on top of everything else. Taking a sip of coffee, Steve glances down, then back at Tony. He is still smiling, but there is something almost uncertain about it. _Nervous_ , Tony’s sluggish mind insists. 

“My schedule is clear for today,” Steve says in a voice that almost manages to sound steady if not for the slight hitch there at the end. Also, Tony notes when he glances down, he is gripping his mug way too tight. “I thought we could... you know,” Steve trails off, scrubs the back of his neck, his cheeks starting to gain color. “Hang out.”

“Hang out,” Tony repeats slowly. 

“Yes,” Steve says, the muscle in his jaw twitching faintly. Tony tilts his head, considers Steve’s face, decides that there is something almost comical about the way his expression keeps shifting from nervous to frustrated.

“Huh,” Tony replies as he takes a seat next to Steve.

Steve shoots him a glare that is equal parts exasperated and impatient. “For someone who enjoys talking, you’re really holding back, Stark.”

Tony drinks the rest of the coffee, pushes the mug in Steve’s direction. “Make me more, and then we’ll talk.”

Steve frowns, glances at the mug, then at Tony’s face. A beat later, he smiles, wide, bright and so warm it almost hurts. “Sure, Tony.”

Steve picks up the mug, heads over to the coffee maker.

“I think I’ll be in the neighborhood next Saturday too,” Steve remarks, trying but failing to appear casual. Even to Tony’s distracted mind.

Tony blinks, his mind stuttering to a stop, and his heart picking up speed.

“Huh,” he finally manages to say. It’s probably not the worst thing he could have said because Steve gives him a look that is both fond and exasperated, and goes back to making coffee.

“ _Huh_ ,” Tony repeats, softer, and feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony’s fingers are not as steady as he would like them to be as he flips through the pages depicting the ways the Avengers should be reined under the collective will of the UN. 

Even though he is not an expert, Tony has had enough dealings with lawyers to know this thing looks solid and thorough. Not in the least like an idea of an overeager bureaucrat, reaching far above his station.

Tony closes the document, his eyes catching on the front page, the words _Sokovia Accords_ taunting him with memories of senseless destruction, scraping open a wound that never really healed.

(A city falling from the sky, bringing death and destruction, and all of it because of him.) 

“It is just a rough draft,” a voice intones in what could pass as mild in anyone else. Tony drags his eyes away from the pages, glances up at the general turned Secretary of State. He is standing near the window, arms crossed over his chest, regarding Tony with a smile on his face. Benevolent smile of a wise and kind man. There is only one problem with it; there is not a single kind bone in the body of Thaddeus Ross. “Experts from all over the world are working on polishing it even as we speak.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches faintly. “Rather liberal waste of everyone’s time and money,” Tony says with feigned nonchalance. He carefully puts the copy of the Accords down on the large mahogany desk in front of him, leans back in his chair. “Or is that just politics in general?”

“Waste, Stark?” Ross says, ignoring the jab completely. He lets out a soft, amused sound. “You might not have noticed, or you elected to ignore it, but the Avengers’ popularity has been on a steady downward spiral ever since New York.” Moving away from the window, Ross slowly circles the desk, forcing Tony to look up to meet his gaze. It is an obvious intimidation tactic, and this is hardly Tony’s first rodeo, but it doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting with something akin to dread. 

(Tony keeps it carefully hidden. Ross, not unlike a shark, can probably scent blood.) 

Tony tilts his head in acknowledgment. “There is no denying we have made some rather big and public mistakes,” Tony admits in an even voice. “We are working on amending those.”

Ross’ answering smile is pure condescension. “And just how long do you think that throwing money at people will keep them docile?”

Tony’s mouth thins into a flat line. “An interesting sentiment coming from a politician.”

Ross doesn’t even blink. He leans against the table, inclines his head toward the copy of the Accords lying there. “The number of countries backing up the Accords is growing by the day. Eighty seven, Stark.” Ross pauses, gives Tony time to process that information. “That is the current number of countries that are opposed to Avengers dealing their special brand of justice inside their borders without their official approval.”

“Special brand of justice?” Tony repeats in a low voice, his eyes narrowing a fraction. A spark of anger flares in the pit of his stomach, bright and hot, but Tony ignores it. Ross is pushing his buttons, trying to get him to do something, well, something Stark-like. Much as Tony would enjoy it, he cannot. He cannot afford to let his guard down around this man. Especially now. With what’s at stake here, Tony’s pride is small sacrifice to make. “Our mistakes notwithstanding, but the Avengers are not common street thugs.”

Something glimmers in Ross’ eyes; like sunlight catching on the surface of a frozen lake. “Public opinion is fickle,” he says in a soft voice. It makes Tony’s skin crawl. “One day you’re a lauded hero, and the next people are calling out for your blood. Though, it is hardly something I need to tell _you_ , Stark.”

Tony blinks, his mouth curving into a strained smile. 

(There is a vast difference between Tony’s name being dragged through mud in the press and the same happening to the Avengers. Tony is so used to it by now, it barely registers. Also, it is hardly without merit. But the Avengers? Whatever their faults, whatever their mistakes, they are heroes. One pure thing in Tony’s life.)

“The Avengers are not a boy band, Sir,” Tony says slowly and carefully as he looks up at Ross with a calm he doesn’t really feel, tasting bile on his tongue as that last word rolls off his tongue. It’s an almost physical pain, having to mince words when all Tony wants is to knock the slimy son of a bitch flat on his back. Right in the middle of his damned office. “We are not after fame or public adoration. I know this might come as a surprise,” Tony remarks, squaring Ross with a unblinking gaze. “But the Avengers don’t operate with hidden agendas. We have only one. A pretty straightforward one. Saving lives.”

Ross’ smile grows sharper. “And how many of the lives you saved were placed in danger by _your actions_?” Ross says. Tony barely stops himself from wincing, his stomach roiling with guilt. Ross doesn’t say Sokovia, but he doesn’t have to. The single largest smear on the Avengers’ good name.

And it is all _Tony’s fault_.

Ross lets out a soft sigh before turning and walking over to sit in the large chair on the other side of the desk. 

“It seems you might have gotten the wrong idea about the purpose of this meeting, Tony.”

Tony’s spine goes stiff, all alarm bells inside his mind going off at once at the sudden change in the atmosphere. Shifting in his seat, Tony tilts his head, his mouth curving into a wry grin. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“No one wants the Avengers gone.”

Tony swallows a snort of disdain, flicks his gaze toward the thick document on Ross’ desk. “No, not gone. Just collared and leashed.”

Ross’ smile tightens at the corners. “I believe under supervision is more appropriate term.”

Tony’s gaze locks on Ross’ for one moment, his lips curving over his teeth. He tried his best, but he is done playing nice. “I like my version better. It cuts through the bullshit.” 

Other than the slight arching of an eyebrow Ross doesn't react. “I would hardly call collateral damage numbering in hundreds of civilian lives bullshit,” Ross intones mildly. “Discounting millions in property damage.”

Tony doesn’t even blink this time. “And what makes a bunch of politicians at UN qualified to play the angel on our shoulders?” Tony remarks in a dry voice. “The Avengers are led by Captain America and, personally, I’d always trust his moral compass over that of some pen-pushing bureaucrat.” Pausing, Tony allows his mouth to stretch into his most insolent grin. The kind that used to make he vein on Nick Fury’s forehead throb. “No offense, Sir.”

But Ross merely tilts his head to the side; looking far, far too composed and smug for Tony’s peace of mind. “Moral compass? Come now, Stark, we are not living in a fairy-tale. Honestly, that is something I would have expected from Rogers, not you.”

“Who is notably absent from this meeting,” Tony says in a flat voice, even as the mention of Steve’s name tugs at something vulnerable and afraid in the middle of his chest. He can all too easily picture Steve’s reaction to the Accords. It sends a shiver of dread across his spine, forces Tony to fold his fingers into fists to prevent them from trembling. “He _is_ the official leader of the Avengers. I’m not even on active duty.”

Ross waves a dismissive hand, leans forward in his seat. “Regardless of your current status, you are the most prominent face of the Avengers. Besides,” Ross pauses, his smile stretching wide, showing off his teeth. Tony presses his lips together, tries not to think of sharks. “You sponsor them, act as their spokesperson. That makes you more than qualified to be here.”

“I make no secret of my work for the Avengers. It still doesn’t make me the leader,” Tony insists, even if Steve is the last person he wishes to be here. It’s a foolish impulse, one Steve would not appreciate in the least, wanting to keep Steve as far as he can from Ross’ machinations, but not one Tony can actually control. It throbs deep within him, fierce, possessive and desperate.

A shadow flickers across Ross’ face for a split second, and, for the first time since Tony was showed into his office, Ross looks less than composed, disdain seeping through the cracks in his facade.

“Rogers is a fine soldier,” Ross says, his voice clipped. “But his mentality is that of another time. A time that has long passed. There is no denying he is useful in his... unique way, but his ideals are outdated.”

Tony clenches his teeth against the fury that swells within his throat, swallowing words that are too revealing, rooted far too close to that secret space inside Tony’s heart no one is allowed to see. 

(Not even the person whose name is carved there.)

“You do know there is an entire exhibit right in this town dedicated to those outdated ideals, embodied in the persona of Captain America?” Tony says, arching an eyebrow in question. “Approved, among others, by the President?” 

(Tony says the words as a challenge. But it doesn’t change the number of times _he_ had accused Steve of the same thing. Of being rigid, unwilling to compromise, far too entrenched in his ways.) 

Ross’ smile is all teeth. “I was a soldier, Stark. I know how bravery, honor and sacrifice can boost morale in time of crisis. I am also a realist.” Ross pauses, squares Tony with a cool gaze. “Each time your team goes out, there is new footage of screaming civilians and crumbling buildings. You think honor and bravery are on the mind of an average citizen as they watch you in action?”

Tony glances down, stares at his clenched hands, forces them to loosen. When he looks up, Ross is watching him closely. He grins. “I imagine there is also a certain amount of gratitude and awe in there somewhere,” Tony says, but even to his own ears his attempt at a joke falls flat.

“Try accountability, Stark. Oversight. Control,” Ross says, flatly. 

Tony’s grin turns brittle on the edges. He knows exactly where this is leading, what is the entire purpose of this meeting. It leaves a bitter taste in the back of Tony’s throat, twists in the pit of his stomach. But it doesn’t come as a surprise. Not even a little. “And how exactly do I fit into all of this?” 

Ross remains silent one long moment. Tony isn’t certain is it a calculated pause, aiming at Tony’s impatience, or merely Ross weighing his words. With this slimy son of a bitch, Tony wouldn’t be surprised if it were both.

“No matter how it may seem, the purpose of this meeting is not to threaten-” 

Tony lets out an incredulous huff of breath, barely managing not to roll his eyes.

“- or coerce,” Ross finishes in a soft, almost friendly voice. “The Accords are not a ploy to have the Avengers disbanded.”

“Yeah. Because having our metaphorical balls in your hands is reassuring,” Tony remarks, wryly. After a beat, squaring Ross with a flat look, he adds, “Sir.”

Ross doesn’t react beyond a minute shake of his head. “It is how the world functions.”

Tony lets out a dry chuckle, shifts in his seat. He doesn’t take his eyes off Ross for a moment. “I suppose since producing an army of super soldiers didn’t work out so well, having the Avengers on your beck and call is the next best thing.”

Ross’ expression turns blank, his mouth pressing into a thin line. A hollow victory, given the document still lying on Ross’ desk. 

“United Nations, Stark,” Ross says slowly. “The Accords represent the will of the world, not solely the US government. And certainly not my own.”

“Yeah, you seem really torn up about it,” Tony forces through gritted teeth.

Ross gives him a flat look. “I do share the opinion the Avengers are a team consisting of highly unpredictable and dangerous individuals, in need of outside supervision.”

“And we are supposed to... what, exactly? Just roll with it?”

The corner of Ross’ mouth twitches, curving faintly. “The Avengers’ cooperation would make the entire matter of implementing the Accords smoother. I believe the show of goodwill on your part would be in all our interests.”

Tony snorts in disdain, his spine stiffening. “Not exactly the pronoun I would use.” Tilting his head to the side, Tony considers Ross silently one second. “Besides, aren’t you jumping the gun? You talk about implementing a document that, at the moment, is worth less than the paper it is printed on.”

“At the moment,” Ross agrees, leaning back in his chair, his mouth forming a lazy smile. The need to wipe the smug expression off the bastard’s face becomes almost painful. “It is merely matter of time when it will no longer be the case.”

Tony’s mouth curves into a grin. “I seem to remember having a similar discussion with a would-be god who led an alien army. He also didn’t think much of the Avengers.”

Ross lets out a soft sigh. “I understand you feel protective of your team. That is an admirable quality. But you are a smart man, Stark. A businessman. You understand how the world works,” Ross says, slowly and carefully. “This meeting? It is carrot, not the stick, Stark. You should perceive it as such.”

Tony goes deathly still. Only his heart defies the chill that seems to have permeated down to the marrow of his bones, pounding wildly against his chest. “I am not about to play a devil’s advocate for you,” Tony grits out, standing up. Fury and outrage burn bright and hot in the hollow of his chest. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Tony clamps down on it. Ross may be a slimy, manipulative bastard, but he is also Secretary of State. “I’m not your man.” 

Turning on his heel, Tony heads for the door of Ross’ office. He has his fingers an inch over the knob when Ross calls out after him.

“Your team is one large incident away from instigating the ratification of the Accords. That, Stark, is a fact.”

Tony screws his eyes shut for a brief moment, releasing a shaky breath. Then he cranes his neck, squares Ross with unflinching gaze. “Yeah, well. If that happens we will deal with it. As a team.” 

Tony doesn’t wait for Ross’ reply. He wrenches the door open and strides out of Ross’ office without looking back.

(But not before seed of doubt takes root in the darker parts of his mind.) 

***

Soft sound of bare feet scuffing against tiled floor is Tony’s only warning before a flick of light switch illuminates the room, and the sudden shift from darkness into light causes a sharp stab of pain behind Tony’s eyelids. It joins the already existing ache, throbbing dully beneath Tony’s temples.

“Fuck,” Tony curses under his breath, squinting at the figure standing stock-still in the doorway. “Steve?” he guesses, going mostly by the shoulder span belonging to the blurry figure in the doorway. And the spark of warmth that surges from within Tony’s chest, chasing away some of the chill and weariness clinging to, seemingly, every cell in Tony’s body.

(Some. But not all. Not even close.) 

“Tony? I didn’t- You weren’t supposed to return until next week.”

Slowly, the white dots disappear from Tony’s vision, and he is gifted with the sight of Steve Rogers dressed in white T-shirt and grey pajama bottoms, with his hair in disarray, and his eyes still sleep-soft, smiling at Tony.

It’s a testament to how tired Tony feels that his heart gives only the smallest lurch at the positively adorable sight Steve is currently presenting.

“Yeah,” Tony says, his face twisting into a grimace as he gives a small half-shrug. “I cancelled a couple of meetings.”

Steve blinks, his eyes darkening as a deep furrow appears on his forehead. Tony follows the direction of Steve’s gaze, then scrubs a weary hand across his face when it leads him to the glass in his hand. “Seriously, Steve, it’s way too late,” throwing a quick glance at his watch, Tony amends, “too early for your special brand of disapproval.”

Steve’s mouth tightens, his frown deepening. 

Tony swallows a frustrated noise when he identifies that expression as the ‘Captain America is disappointed in you’. He isn’t a big fan of that particular expression. Tony gives Steve a flat look, bracing internally for a lecture he knows is about to come, but doesn’t relinquish his drink.

The lecture never comes. 

Steve merely sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more in the process. The frown doesn’t disappear from his face but it softens into something that is not quite resignation but not far from it. “It’s not disapproval, Tony. It is concern,” Steve says - sighs, really - and moves away from the doorway. Tony’s gaze follows him as he rounds the sofa and takes a seat next to Tony. 

Steve’s gaze flicks briefly toward the glass in Tony’s hand, only to return, intent and searching, to Tony’s face. “You know, sleep might be a better idea than that,” Steve remarks in a quiet voice, inclining his head toward Tony’s drink. 

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches in an approximation of a smile. “Probably,” he concedes. He tears his eyes away from Steve’s face, crushes the irrational need to close the distance between their bodies, and simply bask in the warmth and comfort of Steve’s skin. Without having to think, or feel, or do anything but breathe. “But you don’t get a vote, Rogers. You can’t get drunk.”

“Not sure I follow that logic.”

“I get that a lot.”

Steve lets out an amused snort. Tony shoots him a dirty look. “It may come as a surprise,” Steve says. “But it’s not like I’ve never been drunk.”

Tony arches an eyebrow in question. “Captain America, drunk?” he says. “Now, that is one story I need to hear.”

A shadow of sadness flickers in Steve’s eyes, but disappears quickly. “Maybe one day I will tell you,” Steve says, mouth quirking faintly. “And I wasn’t Captain America then.”

Tony looks away, twirls the glass in his hand, takes a sip. “I can’t imagine that. You not being Captain America.”

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I know you saw the pictures, Tony.”

Tony glances at Steve from the corner of his eyes. He is tired, his head is killing him, and there is far too much alcohol in his blood. He really shouldn’t test his brain to mouth filter in this state. Especially around Steve. Perhaps Steve is right and he should go to sleep. 

It is a sensible decision. And it lasts about five seconds. 

“I don’t mean the muscles, Rogers. No matter how much of a gift they are to anyone with working eyesight,” Tony hears himself blurt out.

Steve blinks, the amused expression fading from his face, replaced by something carefully guarded. “Then what _do_ you mean?” 

“ _You_ ,” Tony says, waving in Steve’s general direction. He has no clue what is he trying to say, but it does little in stopping the words from coming out of his mouth. “That whole truth, justice and American way you got going. And stubbornness... _God_. You’re probably the most stubborn person on the face of the planet, Rogers. That’s not the serum, that’s you.” 

Steve regards him silently one long moment before looking away and giving Tony a perfect view of that chiseled jaw as it clenches tightly. “Not all I am,” he says in a soft voice that sounds almost rueful. Then, he bows his head, lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “But it is what most people see.”

Tony swallows around the swell in his throat. “It’s not a bad sight,” Tony says in a low, hoarse voice, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. Everything about this situation seems surreal, from the chaos inside his head and the tightness of his chest, to the curve of Steve’s neck and clench of his fingers in his lap. “I’ve seen much worse.” 

Steve lifts his head sharply, squares Tony with a wary gaze. “ _You_ don’t like it all that much.”

“When we first met, yeah,” Tony admits with a casual shrug. Steve blinks, his forehead creasing. “I pretty much wanted to punch you all the time. Don’t give me that look, you wanted to deck me just as much.”

“Only because you made it your mission to provoke me,” Steve points out. He is still looking at Tony with careful eyes but there is a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. 

“Okay, can’t argue with that,” Tony concedes. “But you grew on me, Rogers. Even that scowl you- yeah, that’s the one.”

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. It is somewhat diminished by the way he tries and fails to contain a smile. “Gee, Stark, a fella could get all sorts of ideas after a compliment like that.”

A huff of laughter leaves Tony’s throat. And for a moment - a tiny fraction of a second - Tony feels at peace. Right then and there, sitting in companionable silence next to Steve in the Avengers’ common room in an ungodly hour of the night, Tony is content. Not a single doubt, need, or desperate longing clouds his mind or constricts his heart. It’s a good feeling.

And it shatters when Steve blinks, gestures vaguely in Tony’s direction. “So. Rough week?”

Tony lets out a short bark of laughter, shakes his head. “You could say that,” he says, rubs at his forehead. “If Pepper ever comes to her senses and decides to step down as a CEO, I’m moving to a deserted island. I’ll live off coconut and entertain myself by making sand castles.”

“You would get bored in less than a day,” Steve says, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “And then there would be explosions.” 

Tony arches an amused eyebrow. “On a deserted island? You give me too much credit, Rogers.”

“I’ve seen you bored, Tony,” Steve points out mildly. 

“If you’re referring to that incident with the explosive arrows, it was mostly Barton’s fault.”

“You nearly blew up the gym,” Steve says, slowly and carefully. “The one next door to Bruce’s lab.”

Tony grimaces. “Yeah, I forgot to factor in that detail.” 

After the dust cleared, and no one, thankfully, turned green, Bruce refused to speak to Tony for a week. Natasha looked very much the same, but Tony knew better than to remain alone in a room with her, Barton was an asshole as always, Thor wasn’t even there, and Steve kept looking at Tony with disappointed eyes. It wasn’t a fun week. 

Tony exhales a heavy breath, rubs at his temple, his face drawing into a grimace.

“Headache?” Steve asks, a note of concern clear in his voice. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, his mouth thinning into a tight line. Maybe he is getting too old for juggling two separate lives. There was a time when a week of board meetings - no matter how mind-numbing dull they were - couldn't drain him of almost all energy. The only saving grace in the entire week was setting up the September Foundation Grant. And seeing Pepper. Despite how bittersweet _that_ felt.) 

(Tony will never not love Pepper. No matter how deep and permanent Steve Rogers has wormed his way inside Tony’s heart, a part of it will always belong to Pepper.)

And then there is Ross. Tony is taking a huge risk by not telling Steve about the meeting with Ross, one that could very well blow spectacularly into his face. 

(Tony is worried. No matter his parting words, Tony can all too easily imagine Steve’s reaction, and it... chills him down to his very core. Fills him with dread so potent it almost seems it has turned into a separate entity, inhabiting the space behind Tony’s ribcage. ) 

“You won’t need this anymore,” Steve says abruptly, his face set into an expression of resolve. Before Tony has time to think of a protest, Steve is taking the glass out of his hand and setting in down on the coffee table. Tony narrows his eyes at Steve, a few choice words - none very polite - forming on the tip of his tongue, all forgotten when Steve fixes him with a unwavering gaze. “Turn around.”

Tony blinks, perplexed. “What?”

“Turn around,” Steve repeats, a touch of exasperation lacing his tone. 

Tony tilts his head, gives Steve a look of narrow-eyed suspicion. “Why?”

Steve huffs out a heavy sigh. Tony is pretty sure it is his version of rolling eyes. “One day you’ll do exactly what I say without questioning me, Stark, and I’ll faint from shock.”

“You don’t faint, Rogers. Except from severe blood loss. Sometimes not even then.”

Steve arches an eyebrow in challenge. “You are free to call my bluff anytime you want, Tony,” he says. “Now turn around.” 

“You are an extremely bossy person, Rogers,” Tony grumbles, but obeys. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I might have heard it mentioned a time or two,” Steve says in a casual voice. Then, without a warning, he moves forward on the sofa, until he is sitting directly behind Tony, and, judging by the warmth Tony can feel emanate from Steve, leaving very little space between their bodies.

Tony’s throat goes dry instantly and his heart does that little stuttering thing Tony has come to equate with having Steve in close proximity. “If you do something childish now, Rogers, I swear-” Tony starts but his words dissolve into a rather embarrassing noise at the first touch of Steve’s fingers massaging his shoulders. 

“Feels good?” Steve asks, sounding smug. Tony cannot find it in himself to hold it against him. Not while his fingers are working magic in relieving the tension from Tony’s body. 

Tony screws his eyes shut, leans further back, until his head is almost resting against Steve’s shoulder. “ _Fuck yes_ ,” he says, not caring about the breathless quality of his voice. “That’s quite the talent you got there, Rogers.” 

Steve lets out a soft chuckle. “Glad to be of service. FRIDAY, could you dim the lights a little, please?”

Tony, who still holds his eyes closed, barely registers FRIDAY’s reply ‘Of course, Captain,’ far too focused on the touch of Steve’s skilled fingers, leaving small tendrils of warmth in their wake. 

The next few moments - or it could be hours, Tony cannot say for certain - pass in silence, disturbed only by the increasingly embarrassing noises coming out of Tony’s mouth. In all honesty, Tony stops trying to contain them somewhere in the first minute of Steve’s magical fingers kneading his sore muscles.

It occurs to Tony, in that small part of his brain that is still capable of drawing conclusions, how careful Steve must be, how mindful of his strength. How those fingers could easily break Tony in two, and instead they are gliding along his neck and shoulders, applying just the right amount of pressure to turn Tony’s body into jelly and mind into mush.

When Steve’s fingers reach the back of Tony’s neck, rubbing at a particularly good spot, a moan slips from Tony’s parted mouth. Just for a second, Steve’s fingers still against the skin of Tony’s neck - not pulling away, nor resuming their previous activity. As if Steve is waiting for something.

Swallowing deeply, Tony opens his eyes, but otherwise remains perfectly still. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Rogers?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it uncomfortable,” Steve answers in a somewhat strangled voice. A beat later, Steve resumes the massage, and Tony releases a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. 

Tony’s eyes flicker shut again. It is taking way too much of his energy to keep them open. Energy that is better spent concentrating on the sheer bliss that is slowly spreading through Tony’s tired body. “I don’t care anyway. It’s your fault, by the way. You’re too good at this. How did I never know you are good at this, Rogers?”

“You never asked.”

“I didn’t ask _now_.”

“You want me to stop?” Steve asks, his fingers slowing minutely.

“Don’t you dare,” Tony sputters, snapping his eyes open. “If you stop now, I’ll do something drastic. Not sure what, yet, but it’ll come to me. And it will be loud and messy, and you’ll scowl for weeks.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I better not stop then,” Steve, the smug bastard, drawls in an amused voice, but doesn’t stop. Tony can live with that. Just this once. 

A few more moments pass in silence, Tony’s headache all but gone now, making it all too easy for Tony’s thoughts to stray into forbidden waters. Waters in which Steve’s fingers are sliding down Tony’s sides and under his shirt, his mouth hot and wet on Tony’s jaw...

Swallowing thickly, Tony forces him mind into compliance, wincing inwardly. This is embarrassing at best, pathetic at worst. He is a grown man, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager with a crush. And he needs to start acting that way. 

Tony takes a deep breath, straightens and starts to pull away. For just one moment, Steve’s fingers tighten on Tony’s shoulders as if trying to prevent him from moving away, but they relax almost instantly, allowing Tony to put some much needed distance between them. 

“You ever think about changing careers, soldier, I’ll hire you,” Tony blurts out in a strained voice, looks at Steve over his shoulder, and freezes. Perhaps it is the dimmed light, or Tony’s imagination, but in that moment, there is nothing but raw longing etched onto every feature of Steve’s face.

Steve’s lashes flutter, his mouth sketching a strained sort of a smile. He shifts in his seat, putting more space between them. Irrationally, stupidly, it makes Tony want to grab him by the wrist and tug him back. “I’ll consider it,” he says in a voice far too casual to be anything but fake. He ducks his head, his shoulders stiffening fractionally. 

Tony blinks at Steve, dismayed, having absolutely no idea what just happened.

“I never wanted to be a soldier,” Steve says suddenly. He keeps his gaze trained on his lap, but Tony is pretty sure he is seeing something else. Something long gone. “Not really.” 

Tony shifts in his seat so that he is facing Steve. He glances down, frowns at the sight of Steve rubbing at the palm of his right hand. “What did you want to be?” Tony asks in a quiet voice, folding his hands into fists in an effort to stop himself from following a very unwise impulse and reaching after Steve’s hand.

(Maybe Tony knew it already, but simply chose to forget it along with so many of his father’s stories about Captain America. But that was then. Now, Tony wants to know everything about Steve Rogers.) 

A dry chuckle escapes Steve’s mouth. “You’ll laugh.”

Tony half-shrugs, his mouth stretching into a shadow of a smile. “It might happen,” he agrees. “I can be bit of a jerk.”

Steve snaps his head up, his eyes locking on Tony’s. A myriad of emotions swirl inside Steve’s gaze, shifting with dizzying speed, settling finally on something fond, if a bit sad. 

“Comic books,” Steve says in a voice that has no similarities at all with the confident and strong voice Tony is used to hearing. It tugs at Tony’s heart, and swells inside his throat, making him want things that are far, far more dangerous than his silly fantasy from moments ago. “I wanted to draw comic books.” 

Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. That wouldn’t have been Tony’s first guess. “So instead of drawing superheroes you became one,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “There’s never the middle ground with you, is it Rogers?”

Steve looks up, a small furrow developing between his eyes as his gaze travels across Tony’s face. “I wanted to serve my country. This,” Steve indicates at himself, smiling ruefully, “was never my goal. Sometimes it seems more like a price than anything else.” Tilting his head to the side, Steve gives Tony a wary look. “And you are handling this information with surprising restraint, Stark.”

“Such a suspicious mind you have in that pretty head of yours, Rogers.”

“It is called experience. Years of it.”

Tony grins, flicks his gaze at Steve’s hands, something tight uncoiling inside his chest when he finds them loose. “How come I’ve never seen you draw?” Tony asks. Then, lowering his voice suggestively, he adds, “You could draw me like one of your French girls.”

Steve blinks, gives Tony a look of mild exasperation. There is, however, a tiny flush rising on his cheeks, visible even in the dimmed lighting.

“I’ve been out of the ice for years now, Tony,” Steve points out. “I’ve seen the movie.”

Tony’s grin widens. “Good for you, Rogers. But that doesn’t answer my question.” Pausing, Tony wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I can clear my schedule for tomorrow if you’re up for it.” 

Steve straightens almost imperceptibly, his jaw setting in that familiar stubborn way, and Tony suddenly remembers why playing any game of chicken with Steve Rogers may not be such a smart idea.

“Sure, Stark,” Steve deadpans. “Will you be providing a necklace too?”

Tony opens his mouth, takes in the gleam of resolve in Steve’s eyes and bursts into laughter.

“You’re something else, Rogers,” Tony says when he stops laughing. Steve gives him a small half-shrug, his expression softening with an almost sheepish smile. Tony shakes his head before squaring Steve with thoughtful eyes. “But seriously now. Why aren’t you drawing anymore?”

Steve glances away for a moment, his spine going stiff. “I do, but not often. It’s- I guess it’s not the same anymore.”

“How so?”

Steve scrubs a hand across his face. “After the ice, everything I wanted to-” Steve breaks off, clears his throat, his face drawing into a grimace. “Then there was no time, and then suddenly I could see colors, and it-” Steve visibly bites back the rest of that sentence, his eyes becoming guarded. “It doesn’t really matter now, anyway. Being a soldier wasn’t what I wanted for myself, but it is who I am.” 

Tony sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “I guess we never really talked about it, did we?” He doesn’t elaborate on what it is, but he doesn’t really have to. The way Steve’s mouth tightens and his brow furrows are clear indication he knows what Tony is referring to. 

“We did,” Steve says after a moment of silence. His tone is flat, giving away nothing. “Right at the start. You made yourself quite clear.”

“Okay, remember when I said I can be a bit of a jerk? I was a major jerk that time,” Tony says in a weary voice. 

“We both were,” Steve concedes.

“But it’s not like that with us anymore. We’re friends, right? And friends should talk to each other about important stuff. And this,” Tony gestures between them, “is pretty damn important.”

Steve doesn’t say a thing for one long moment. He just looks at Tony with careful eyes, his mouth curving into a smile Tony doesn’t like at all. It seems far too sad. “What did you call it, a magical accident? No, don’t argue. I know you meant it. And you were right. It’s-” Steve pauses, as if searching for right words. “I was wrong in presuming us being soulmates should instantly matter to you. You didn’t know me, you didn’t particularly like me, and you sure as hell didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Steve breaks off. He glances away, his hands clenching into fists. “I know it isn’t how it used to be before,” Steve says in a tight voice, locks his gaze on Tony’s face. There is a small smile on his lips that holds no mirth whatsoever. “I looked it up.”

Tony blinks, latching on Steve’s last words in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the insistent pressure in his chest that is steadily approaching painful. “You looked it up?”

“I woke seventy years in the future, Tony. I had to re-learn great many things.”

There are lines ready on the tip of Tony’s tongue. Lines that would steer this conversation into safe waters. Conversation that is making him want to throttle himself or curl protectively over Steve, and neither option is exactly smart. 

Tony doesn’t say any of those lines. Instead, he hears himself blurt out, “And how was it before? For you?”

Steve’s eyes narrow just a fraction, turning wary. “What does it matter now?” Steve asks with just a hint of warning. “It’s in the past.” 

Tony squares Steve with a level look, and because he cannot not push Steve, even when it hurts them both, he presses on. “I’m a nosy bastard, you know that, Rogers.”

Steve straightens, his face going utterly blank. “Maybe I don’t want to-

“Pepper,” Tony sputters, watches as Steve’s face draws in confusion, his mouth still parted. “I wanted it to be Pepper.” When Steve remains silent, watching Tony with unreadable gaze, Tony lets out a sigh, looks down for a second. “Before her, I didn’t give a fuck about soulmates. Not seeing colors was a royal pain in the ass, but that was it. I had no desire to have some stranger forced at me and just go with it like it’s some great gift. These days, rarely anyone does. There are even pills to soothe the ache of separation,” Tony trails off, chances a glance at Steve, finds him looking intently at Tony. “I fucked it up. With Pepper, I mean. I didn’t tell her about you.” A dry chuckle leaves Tony’s mouth at the way Steve’s face scrunches into a near guilty expression. “Don’t do that. It’s not your fault. Pepper didn’t leave because you are my soulmate. She left me because I was an idiot.” Letting out a heavy breath, Tony drags his knuckles across his forehead. The headache, lessened by Steve’s massage is starting to come back with a vengeance. “The chances are, if it weren’t for that, I would have found some other way to ruin things with Pepper.” 

Steve’s face draws into a frown. “You shouldn’t- you are too hard on yourself, Tony,” Steve says, sounding nothing but earnest. 

Tony waves a dismissive hand, forces his mouth into a smile. “Like you said, it doesn’t matter now,” Tony says, aiming for casual but missing it about a mile. “So that’s my story, Rogers. It’s not much, I know. But I’d really like to hear yours.” 

Steve hesitates a moment, visibly battling with himself. Tony stays quiet and waits, concentrating on keeping his breathing even despite the tightness in his chest. He cannot telly why it matters now - hearing Steve talk about what he’d wanted from a soulmate - when it never did before, just that it does. 

With one long exhale, Steve comes to a decision. “Bucky always talked how his soulmate will be an heiress,” Steve says with a wistful little smile. Tony’s lungs do that complicated routine they always do when Steve mentions Barnes, where they try to simultaneously expand and contract, making breathing quite a challenge for a few moments. Steve doesn’t mention Barnes often - even if he is still following leads, scarce as they are - but at least now it’s with a soft ache in his voice, not raw misery of before. “How we’ll move to Manhattan and live the good life. I knew he was just talkin’ big, but there were times when I almost believed him.”

“He was a ladies’ man, then? Barnes?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, he was.” Steve pauses, lets out a soft laugh. “Kept trying to fix me up with a gal.”

“How did that work out?”

“I was scrawny and sickly, and I had no idea how to actually talk to any of my dates,” Steve says with a shrug. “How do you think it worked out?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And you? Were _you_ dreaming of an heiress?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. He gives Tony an incredulous look. A beat later, his eyelashes flutter, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his gaze. “I never thought about it much. I guess I was simply looking forward to meeting someone who would bother to look twice at me.”

“Those gals of yours weren’t especially bright,” Tony says, surprising himself by the vehemence in his voice.

The look Steve gives him is simultaneously amused and suspicious. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Steve says. “I really wasn’t much to look at.” Pausing, Steve straightens almost imperceptibly, lifts his chin, the look in his eyes turning almost defiant. “What makes you assume I thought my soulmate would be a woman?”

Tony blinks, opens his mouth. Then immediately regrets it because what comes out of it is, “Huh?”

“Being attracted to both genders is not a recent development, Tony,” Steve says, holding Tony’s gaze unblinkingly. “You modern folks only gave it a fancy name.”

Tony is - in a distant, still functioning part of his brain - aware that he is currently giving an impersonation of a goldfish. It’s not like he can help himself, though. Not considering the bombshell Steve casually dropped just now.

“Gotta say, Stark, I didn’t think you could be so easily shocked,” Steve says in a light, almost amused voice. But his eyes remain serious. Alert.

Tony snaps out of his daze with a shake of his head and a low chuckle. “You’re a veritable font of surprises, Rogers.”

“And this?” Steve asks, his voice gaining a defensive edge. “This a good surprise or a bad one?”

Hope flares to life inside Tony’s chest - foolish, unwanted and painful - but Tony doesn’t pay attention to it. What does it matter if Steve is attracted to men as well. “I would tell you to look up my name with a few choice phrases like sex tape, threesome and public indecency,” Tony says, watching carefully as Steve’s eyes grow wide and color rises to his cheeks with each of his words. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that. So let’s just say if you’re expecting me to judge you, it would be a case of pot and kettle arguing over which has the blacker feathers.”

A strange expression crosses Steve’s face. It strongly resembles satisfaction. 

Tony’s heart skips a beat, and that damned hope that is still fluttering inside his chest, grows stronger, more insistent. Tony bites on his lower lip to stop himself from blurting out something idiotic. Releasing a breath through his nose, he steers the conversation away from this particular minefield. “And Peggy Carter? Wasn’t she your... what’s that ancient term, sweetheart?”

Steve’s mouth draws into a wistful smile. “Peggy, she- she was something else. Fierce, brave, smart. Beautiful. For some reason she saw more in me than just a skinny, awkward guy from Brooklyn.” Dragging his fingers through his hair, Steve lets out a soft chuckle. “She shot at me, once.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised, Rogers,” Tony remarks, grinning. “You have one of those faces.”

Steve gives him a pointed look. “I’m pretty sure I have nothing on you in that regard, Stark.”

“Point taken.”

“You know,” Steve says, looking at Tony with careful eyes. “Your father was there when it happened.”

Tony’s grin falters, then fades entirely. “Yeah, dear old dad,” Tony says in a low voice. He tilts his head, gives Steve a considering gaze. “I can’t imagine how strange it must be for you. Talking to me, I mean. I’m his son, and I’m older than he was when you knew him.”

Steve brow draws tight. He looks away as he shifts in his seat. Tony cannot be sure is it intentional or not, but that tiny shift places Steve closer to where Tony is sitting, not further. “It was... difficult. In the beginning. To accept that everything I’ve known is gone. It still is, sometimes,” Steve says in a quiet voice, leveling Tony with a steady gaze. “Talking to you isn’t.” At Tony’s raised eyebrows, Steve gives a one-shouldered shrug, smiles. “I never mistook you for Howard. Never resented you for not being him. Trust me, Tony, you’re one of a kind.”

“I’m just going to take that as a compliment, Rogers,” Tony says, keeping his voice casual and ignoring the tiny flutter of warmth inside his chest. 

“You should,” Steve says, solemnly. His right hand moves, but Tony becomes aware of it only when he feels strong fingers close carefully around his right wrist, unable to draw his eyes from the gleam of determination in Steve’s eyes. “I said it as such.”

So. Tony most definitely is not a blushing virgin - no matter the way his heart and his lungs try to defy that fact by failing to resume functioning properly - he _knows_ Steve is gearing up for kissing him. It’s rather difficult to misinterpret Steve’s intentions considering the careful way he sidles closer, sliding his hand up Tony’s arm and shoulder until it rests on the nape of Tony’s neck, his fingers warm and gentle as they cradle the back of Tony’s skull.

Steve’s eyes flick toward Tony’s mouth then back up to his eyes, questioning. Tony can see Steve’s Adam’s apple work as he swallows, can hear a low hiss of breath released through parted mouth as Steve slowly leans forward. 

Steve is about to kiss him. It’s going to happen for all the wrong reasons, and it will ruin this tentative friendship they have managed to build. And having just a taste of something Tony desperately wants but won’t be able to hold onto is simply not worth it. 

Unless. Unless Tony does something responsible and mature.

(Tony doesn’t want to stop Steve. He wants the kiss. Hell, he wants more; naked skin and hungry kisses, possessive hands and teasing mouths. He wants to suck bruises into the skin of Steve’s neck and wants to feel the scrape of Steve’s teeth on his own skin. He wants the drag and press of Steve’s cock inside him and the tight grip of Steve’s fingers around his cock. He wants _everything_.)

But not as much as he wants to keep Steve’s friendship. 

Tony knows how strong Steve is, has seen him in action many times, but it takes only a small press of Tony’s hand, fingers splayed wide against Steve’s chest, to stop him from closing the remaining space between their mouths.

(It’s in the top three most difficult things Tony’s had to do. He is somewhat amazed by the steadiness of his hand, considering he is half-convinced his chest is moments away from falling apart from the pressure of sheer _want_ contained inside it.)

Steve remains frozen, still half-leaning toward Tony’s face, an expression of dismay, confusion and uncertainty clear on his face. His heart is pounding an erratic beat underneath Tony’s palm. Tony pulls his hand away. The loss he feels is immediate and strong, an almost physical sensation pressing hard against his straining lungs.

“Tony?” Steve says in a small voice that is far cry from his usual steady and strong one. His hand is still resting on the back of Tony’s neck, but his fingers are trembling faintly. “Have I-”

Tony doesn’t let him finish. Doesn’t want to hear the words and acknowledge the line they have come so close to crossing. To step back from it is already taking more will than Tony knew he had inside himself.

_So. Avoidance it is._

He forces his mouth into a smile, and pulls away, his stomach twisting painfully, and his heart howling at him in impotent fury at the way Steve’s hand just drops from Tony’s shoulder, his expression that of loss, bewilderment and hurt.

“So. Anything important happened while I was away?” Tony asks. Mercifully, his voice doesn’t break. “Any new leads on Rumlow?”

It hurts to sit there with a fucking smile on his face and watch the transition from raw, naked longing, disappointment and hurt to something hard and carefully guarded on Steve’s face. But still, Tony does it. Because it is the right thing to do. The right choice.

No matter the pain that cuts through his chest like poisoned dagger.

“I-” Steve starts but his voice breaks. He looks away for a second, curls his hand into fist, pulling it into his lap. Tony feels his stomach roil when he notes it’s the hand that moments ago rested on the back of Tony’s neck. Steve inhales sharply, shakes his head. Tries again. “Natasha is following a few leads. The most promising seems to point to Lagos.”

The silence that ensues after Steve’s curt reply is stifling and strained, and makes Tony think of shattered glass lying discarded on the floor.

(What if he made a mistake? What if Steve wasn’t acting on impulse, influenced by their talk and that damned bond? What if Tony ripped his heart in half for nothing?)

Yeah, well. It’s too late for that now. Tony made his choice, and considering his list of fuck ups and mistakes, this doesn’t even make the list.

Tony clears his throat, rubs at his neck. Wishes... well, it doesn’t matter. “Good. If anyone can find him, Natasha can.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees in a flat, emotionless voice, his eyes sparking with dark, almost vindictive light for a second.

Tony opens his mouth, but clicks it shut. The tension between them is almost palpable, reflecting in the tense line of Steve’s shoulders and the hard set of his jaw. 

“It’s late, and I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll call it a night,” Tony says, watching Steve’s face carefully. Steve’s mouth tightens minutely, but beyond that, Steve remains unresponsive, and his face unreadable. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Tony gets up off the couch. Steve watches him in silence. Tony hesitates a moment before adding in a low, tentative voice. “Thanks for the massage.”

Steve blinks up at him, his face still unreadable. “Anytime.”

Tony swallows a resigned sigh. “Night, Rogers.” 

“Goodnight, Tony.”

Tony is almost at the door when he is stopped by Steve’s voice; quiet but steady. “I’m glad it’s you, Tony.”

Tony sucks in a harsh breath, squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t need to ask for clarification, he knows what Steve is referring to. Just as he knows that despite everything, including himself, he feels the same.

Tony glances over his shoulder at Steve whose face is obscured by the shadows from this distance, and lets out a soft sigh. “For what it’s worth, Steve, I am glad it’s you.”

Tony waits one moment, half-hoping and half-dreading Steve’s reply. When Steve remains silent, Tony walks away, his chest tight and aching, unsure whether he just dodged a bullet or made a terrible mistake. 

***

Charlie Spencer.

That is how it starts for Tony.

With unforgiving eyes of a grieving mother and bitter words of accusation and disdain.

Lagos is how it starts for everyone else.

With a brief slip in Wanda’s concentration that results in a tragedy.

Tony grits his teeth, pretends he doesn’t hear the smug satisfaction in Ross’ voice when he makes the call.

“I’m glad to have you on board, Stark. Like I said months ago, no one wants to see the Avengers disbanded. Despite your recent mess.”

Tony shuts his eyes, swallows thickly. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He holds a trembling hand against his chest, thinks of Steve.

Steve will understand. He will have to understand. They cannot go around, leaving dead bodies and ruins in their wake any longer.

_Who's going to avenge my son, Stark? He's dead. And I blame you._

The words echo inside Tony’s mind, pulse in sync with his heart as guilt and regret take shape of single-minded determination.

Steve will listen and he will see that the Accords are needed.

He will. He _must_.

***

Steve doesn’t listen. He doesn’t want to listen.

Doesn’t want to consider a compromise. Just sits there, self-righteousness upped to maximum, looking at Tony with disapproval and disappointment. 

Steve doesn’t ask the question - no, the fool is far too busy giving lectures on how the world works, as if Tony is the one who needs them, not the guy who cannot see past his fucking black and white morality - but Tony can see it clearly in his eyes.

_Did you know about this?_

The team is splintering, lines are being drawn, sides are being taken.

(Tony and Steve have fought before. They will always fight, that Tony knows for certain, they have far too different worldview not to. But this, now? It feels like a prelude to something that goes beyond words 

When Steve abruptly stands up and leaves, Tony cannot do anything but watch him walk away, while frustration, worry and dread wreak havoc in the hollow of his chest, making his lungs strain for breath. 

The silence following Steve’s exit erupts into a chorus of voices, everyone talking and no one really listening. Tony keeps his eyes set on Steve’s, now vacant, chair, rubbing at his right arm absentmindedly, trying to get rid of the numbness spreading there.

When Tony looks up, he meets Natasha’s gaze, assessing and concerned in equal measure. He offers her an empty, practiced smile he knows she’ll see right through. 

Letting out a deep breath, Tony scrubs a hand across his face, glances at the door. 

(You love him. And you are losing him.) 

***

Peggy Carter dies.

Bucky Barnes enters the picture.

And Tony - angry and tired and terrified down to the marrow of his bones - watches as Steve takes on the world for him.

Slowly, he is beginning to realize that Steve won’t back down.

But Tony has to try.

There must be a way to salvage everything. To keep the Avengers from falling apart.

To keep Steve.

***

Tony tries bargaining. 

It’s not his best performance. He is practically vibrating with nervousness, his palms are sweaty, and for the larger part of the conversation, Tony has to swallow the anger that is churning inside his stomach. 

(He is trying to keep them together, why can’t Steve see this?)

Barnes is the key, Tony knows it, and he plays that card. 

It almost works. _Almost_. 

Steve almost signs. He has the pen in his hand, and even if he is obviously struggling with his decision, he is willing to sign. Tony knows it’s because he wants to protect Barnes, but he doesn’t care. 

Everything can be fixed, the Accords can be moderated, only if Steve signs the damned thing.

But Tony fucks it up by mentioning Wanda, and instead of relief at salvaging the situation, he is left watching Steve’s face draw into a scowl of angry disappointment. 

It ends with Steve striding away in a huff of righteous fury, and Tony staring after him, feeling as if he is sinking into quicksand, with no help in sight.

(You love him. And you _are_ losing him.)

***

Begging doesn’t help either.

Tony wonders - in a distant part of his mind, the one that isn’t drowning in growing frustration and anger - whether Steve is even aware that Tony is, in fact, begging him to stay. Even if Tony is standing, voluntarily, across from him, not by his side.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

Steve stands there, as if carved out of stone, unmovable and cold, and Tony wishes he could pull that off. Simply silence every emotion that is raging inside him and... what?

What happens now?

As it turns out, they fight.

***

“Boss, isn’t this going directly against the Accords?”

Tony opens his eyes, a huff of humorless laughter leaving his mouth. “Yep,” he says, winces at the dull throb of pain in his arm. He looks out the small window at the storm outside, tries not to think of Rhodey falling from the sky, and fails spectacularly.

“And if Secretary Ross finds out?”

“Well, in that case, I get to bunk with the old gang,” Tony says, grimaces when he recalls Wanda’s blank face and Clint’s accusations. “It should be fun.”

“Boss, you are still injured from the last fight-”

“Appreciate the concern, FRIDAY,” Tony cuts in. “But what I need is more information on this Zemo guy.” 

“Sure thing,” FRIDAY says, giving an uncanny impression of a sigh. 

Tony stares at the holographic images of a man’s face, a Sokovian soldier, with a rising sense of foreboding.

Someone - this guy one, seemingly ordinary, guy. is it even possible? - is playing them. But to what end? And why?

_He is Sokovian. You need to guess why he could be a little pissed at the Avengers?_

With a tight press of lips, Tony forces his mind to concentrate on the present. He is far too tired - body _and_ soul - to deal with the ramifications of creating Ultron right now. 

So. Barnes is innocent - well, for the bombing of UN, at least - that is something he can offer Steve as another olive branch. As for the rest, the Accords, the rift between the team, the others being locked in the Raft... 

It is bad. Not world-ending bad, not that. On some level, though, it is worse. Worse because it is them, splintering from the inside, and no matter how hard Tony tries, he cannot seem to make it right.

There is still a chance, though. To talk to Steve, to get him to work with Tony, instead against, and maybe, just maybe, they will get through this bruised and battered but not shattered.

(Tony is tired. So fucking tired. He wishes he could stop. Stop feeling, stop thinking. He wishes none of this happened. But most of all, Tony wishes he knew is all of this even worth a damn. It sure as hell isn’t worth Rhodey’s legs.) 

Inhaling deeply, Tony releases a heavy breath, his hand pressing against his chest, seeking comfort in the dull ache he feels there.

Steve is alive. And that matters above everything else. 

That means there is still a chance to fix everything.

***

Long after Steve leaves with Barnes, Tony will not move from the ground.

(He is tired and aching all over and the suit is dead. But mostly, he doesn’t want to move. It seems like too much of an effort. Later. Maybe.)

The silence after the fight with Steve - _Steve_ \- and Barnes is jarring. It makes the sounds of metal hitting metal, of metal clanking against concrete that are still echoing inside Tony’s mind louder. 

But there is no one left here - no matter what Tony’s mind is telling him - no one but Tony. 

Well. There _is_ Steve’s shield, lying on the ground a few feet away. Discarded as if it means nothing. 

A reminder of how pathetic Tony really is.

It’s fucking hilarious, or it would be if Tony could feel anything but bitter resentment filling the space inside his chest. Space hollowed out by fury, hurt and betrayal. After everything Tony had said to Steve these past few days. After every attempt at finding a middle ground failed in the face of Steve’s unwillingness to compromise, it is a petty, spiteful remark what Steve finally deigned to acknowledge.

One final fuck you to Tony.

Dragging his eyes from Steve’s - is it his still? - shield, Tony lets out a shaky breath. 

FRIDAY should have flown the helicopter here soon, and he’ll have to stand up and walk away from this damned place, and carry on.

And he will do this. He’d done it before; walked from the ruins of his life and built it back, piece by piece, he’ll do it this time, but for now, he doesn’t want to think of feel or remember.

But he does.

He remembers Steve’s laugh, Steve’s hands gentle on his shoulders, Steve’s eyes glinting with fond exasperation. Even now, when Tony knows all those things are lies, they still seem true. True enough to hurt, at least.

(You love him. And you lost him.)

It doesn’t matter - the heart’s logic is fucked up like that - that Steve was never Tony’s to begin with.


End file.
